From: SaiTiau@aol.com Date sent: Sat, 18 Oct 1997 14:26:43 -0400 (EDT) DISCLAIMERS: I will say this only once. That goes for the whole story, so don't come nitpicking. :) The main characters don't belong to me. (Only the ridiculous sounding names do. No. . Actually they don't . . I took them from magazines' editing staffs. ) I've taken the liberty to mess with their lives, and I'm not making any profit (who's gonna pay to read this trash anyway?!); I'm only borrowing them, and I hope the Powers that Be won't mind. Here goes. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Cancer Man, and the paranoia belongs to Chris Carter (Hi Chris!! ), Fox Television, Ten-Thirteen. Gary Hobson, Merisa Clark, Chuck Fishman, the Cat, and the Paper belong to Bob Brush, CBS Television, Angelica Films, Columbia-Tristar, and Three- Characters. The County Cook ER gang belong to Michael Crichton, John Wells, Warner Brothers, and NBC. Sam Becket, Al, and this "leaping" business belong to Donald P. Bellisario and Bellasaurius. Thank you all very much. CATEGORY: Crossover (Hell, it's a riot!)--X-Files/Early Edition/Quantum Leap/ER; T, A. SUMMARY: In the aftermath of Mulder's "death," a case brings Scully to Chicago -- where she gets entangled in some unexpected danger and receives some unexpected help. AUTHOR'S NOTES: To fully understand the going-ons in this fic, you'd have to watch "Early Edition." But if you don't, you might get by. :) If you would like to know more about the shows, however, e-mail me and I would be glad to summarize them for you. These people *are* an interesting batch of characters. This is my first multi-part fanfic, and only my second fanfic--so be kind. I would very much like constructive criticism/flames/whatever-you-like--in other words, I NEED input--send all to SaiTiau@aol.com. This is no real MSR, only UST, nothing you NoRomos can't handle. :) ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Claudy, who introduced me to the wonderful show that is "Quantum Leap," thanks to Mary and Steff for being my "ER consultants," thanks to Matt for archiving, and thanks to the wonderful Meredith for beta reading, telling me where it was confusing as hell, and putting up with all my computer problems. You are the best! :) DISTRIBUTION: Why, I'd be flattered! Just keep my name and e-mail with it and tell me if you do! RATING: Mostly PG-13. (A mild R for violence and swearing in some parts) SPOILERS: "The Wall" for "Early Edition," 3rd season for "ER," 4th season for "X-Files." Hey. . .wake up. . .on to the chaos. . . Wrinkles of Faith (1a/7) by Fontaine L. (aka Orange Kat) Mark Greene was terrified. For the first time in his life, he felt the unbearable imbroglio of life crash down on him, swallowing all, destroying all. For his fifteen years in practice, it was the first time he had totally lost control. "Will you *fucking* leave me alone?!?!" he roared, much to his own dismay. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to hurt other people. But his life--did he still have one?--had changed so completely in the past month, he didn't even recognize himself when he looked inside the mirror. It wasn't an experienced, calm, and intelligent doctor he saw. It wasn't the kind, warmhearted, and humorous man that his friend Susan had once taken so much pride in. What he saw was a *creature*, a being whose very existence was about to be threatened; a tautly drawn string about to be severed. Often at times like these, especially recently, he would let out a rueful chuckle, fully aware that it came out like a gasp of a man on the verge of mortality. Tonight he felt very much like that. Slowly, quietly, the realization of the words that he just spurted out without thinking dawned on him. Putting a hand to his balding head, he glanced around embarrassedly, and was even more dismayed to find everyone staring at him-- colleagues, patients, and *Ansbaugh*. God, how could he let Ansbaugh see him slip like that? Ansbaugh, Ansbaugh, Ansbaugh--Mark was sure he was going to be fired, on the spot-- "Mark, I know you're upset, but you don't have to take it out on me." Maggie Doyle was glaring at him fiercely, her brownish curls flying everywhere. "Maggie, I'm sorry . . . " Unable to find anything more to say, Mark bit his bottom lip as a gesture of apology and turned around and left. He couldn't stand there any longer, or he was going to burst from frustration. No, it wasn't Maggie's fault. It wasn't anybody's fault he ended up this way either. Five months ago he was happy. He was a respected surgeon, a trusted colleague, and a loved friend--now, he wasn't sure what he was. Everything seemed to go wrong after Susan left--Susan--god, Susan. He should've told her sooner, he should've told her that-- "Mark, are you sure you're alright?" Carol Hathaway was at his side, a warm hand resting worriedly on his forearm, brow furrowed. Managing a meek smile, Mark glanced at the beautiful Italian nurse and replied, "Yeah, Carol, I'm--" A slight hesitation, "I'm fine, really." Once again he felt the need to escape, to escape the Glare, to escape the love and comfort his friend offered him. He walked away, not turning back--but he could feel Carol's gaze lingering on him, following him--he quickly turned into the locker room. Once there, he buried his head in his arms and wept. * * * * * * * * * * * Silence. Absolute silence. Well, maybe excluding the sound of her own sobs, a sound that one scarcely heard from the composed, strictly-business Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully. But then again, nowadays, that Dana Scully was gone. Every since she had lost her partner, the one and only human being on this world that she trusted, depended on, with utter ferocity and conviction. And that self-centered son-of-a-bitch *had* to go ahead and kill himself. What an ass. Like he didn't know that her whole life had depended on him. Like he didn't know that in the course of merely four years, she had become as attached to him as the roots of a tree clung to the rich soil for life. In the day, in the safety and warmth of the sunlight, she was okay. She was now the sole investigator of the X-Files--the only thing Mulder had left for her. It had now become her mission, her holy grail. Now, she had to find Samantha for Mulder. Now, she faced the shadowy forces alone--she wasn't sure how long she could hold up. Each morning, she would show up at the basement office, accept whatever cases Assistant Director Skinner handed down to her, immerse herself in them, heart and soul. Putting herself in the fervor and danger of these cases reminded her of her partner. Of what had been. But when darkness crept into the world, the professional Dana Scully was no more. In the cold chill of the night, she was just another lonely woman who missed someone she loved. End Part 1a Every step I take Every move I make Every single day Every time I pray I'll be missing you Just the other day When you went away What a life to take What a bond to break I'll be missing you -- Puff Daddy and Faith Evans, "I'll Be Missing You" Wrinkles of Faith, (1b/7) by Fontaine (aka Orange Kat) Sam Beckett was feeling restless. He'd already been in this body for more than *two weeks*--now that was a record--and that damn computer still hadn't given any indication to Al that he could leap again. In fact, the computer--Ziggy, it was--hadn't given any indication at all. At nights he would wake up in horror--what if he was trapped in this body forever? This had been happening much too often lately, and Sam had begun to worry. Was there something wrong with the computer's programming? No, you're just being paranoid, Al had assured him. Ah, that was it--he *must* be dying. Maybe it was because he leapt too much, his body couldn't take it any longer. Maybe it was so messed up inside that it simply decided to stop functioning. Anyhow, Sam was feeling restless. Terrifyingly so. He had begun to question his *existence*, for christsake. His latest hosts--the past five, to be exact--hadn't been cooperating with him. Or, rather, whatever kind of problem his hosts had gotten themselves into weren't working out as well as he thought. If they did, something would cause a delay in his leap. For Joseph Struthers, it was the aftermath of Sam's solution to his problem -- that was way back in Boise, Idaho. And then he had gotten himself in this drag concerning Jennifer Deans, this *stripper* in Pierre, South Dakota. Now *that* was an exhilarating experience. Only it became annoying when Sam was trapped in Jennifer's body for three days longer than the computer had calculated. In much of the same matter, minor casualties had kept Sam in his host bodies for longer than he was willing--and although Al kept his cool, Sam could tell that Al was worried too. Something was going wrong in this experiment of theirs. He only hoped that they would find out *what* was wrong before it was too late. * * * * * * * * * * * It was brisk and gloomy, a typical D.C. Morning when Dana Scully dragged herself off her couch--which she had fallen asleep on last night while watching TV--into her car, and to the FBI Headquarters. She had just finished working on a missing persons case a few days ago, and she was just glad she didn't have to jet off anywhere for the next few days. Life without Mulder was more. . . normal. No more phone calls in the middle of night informing her of some bizarre incident or incredulous sighting that intrigued her restless partner. No more long distance interstate trips in the car that made her bones feel like they were locked together and her head feel like it was dangerously close to falling off. No more. . . No more Mulder. Scully chided herself for letting her mind wander off so easily, but the though only brought tears to her eyes. True, life without Mulder was normal. She finally had the time on her hands that she always felt herself needing when they were partners. Hell, now she's even got her own desk. But life wasn't the same without Mulder--it was stripped of color, deprived of meaning. Life without Mulder was nothing. Deep down inside, Scully knew she had to continue--she had to at least continue for Mulder. Sometimes, she could swear she heard Mulder's voice inside her head. She found herself forming theories that sounded like Mulder's -- those alien - abduction - government -conspiracy-psychic-paranormal theories. Scully let out a woeful chuckle despite herself. She had *become* Mulder. She had received his passion and beliefs because he was no longer there to provide them himself. She had inherited his sense of guilt because she hadn't been there for him when he needed her. She hadn't been able to stop him. Scully laughed despite the grave situation she was in, feeling ridiculous. Why would she worry. She was going to die, too. Soon. * * * * * * * * * * * Just beyond the shadows, someone watched. . . And waited. * * * * * * * * * * * Inside Fox Mulder's dismal basement office, Scully chewed on sunflower seeds she found in Mulder's desk. . .She never really liked those things. . .But what the hell. Wasn't she becoming her partner anyway? If she wanted to be Fox Mulder, why not go all the way. It was already 10:13 am in the morning, and she had done nothing. There were a pile of files waiting for her to review, and Forensics had asked her to do an autopsy, but Scully didn't feel like moving. It was all this. . .time. . . she had on her hands. It gave her the illusion that she didn't have to do anything, and the world stood still, too. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNG. Damn it. The shrill sound of the phone ringing jolted Scully out of her thoughts. "Scully." she muttered into the resented mouthpiece. "Agent Scully, I need to see you in my office right away." Assistant Director Skinner's baritone bellowed through the phone. "I'll be right there," Scully mumbled. Great. End of vacation. * * * * * * * * * * * Walter Skinner tapped his pencil absentmindedly on the file before him. The other hand automatically reached to the back of his head. This was the first true X-File he was giving Agent Scully after Agent Mulder's untimely death. . . he wondered if she could handle it. But then, he was watching her trudging toward her own death -- whether out in the field or in the autopsy bay, she threw herself into her work with utter devotion-- reckless devotion, that is. She wasn't cautious anymore. And Skinner knew that subconsciously, she didn't care about happened to her. If not for the X-Files, he feared that she would slip dangerously close to the edge. Skinner closed his eyes and images of the past slipped into the back of his mind -- assigning Scully to the X-Files, reading the duo's often ludicrous reports, but he fought so hard to protect them how many times he dealt with the sinister old man with his poisonous gases filling this office supposedly the epitome of fidelity, bravery, and integrity. . . and then they took Scully, returned her with this disease, now Mulder too. . .and just like he did several times before, Skinner couldn't bear the images anymore and opened his eyes, letting the reality of the present slip in once again. A soft knock at his door. "Come in, Agent Scully." The pale female agent closed the door behind her and sat down in the chair in front of Skinner's desk. She looked as if she had aged ten years. Skinner sighed inwardly -- if only he had stopped this all -- if only he hadn't assigned Scully to the X-Files in the first place -- she would have made a wonderful pathologist. But somehow, he doubted Scully regretted the past four years spent with Agent Mulder. "Sir, what is it you wanted to see me about?" Skinner snapped out of his reverie and nodded towards the file on his desk. "I've got an X-File for you, Agent Scully." He gauged her reaction, and when receiving none, plodded on. "I. . . I realize I haven't been giving you any X-Files cases since Agent Mulder. . ." A deep jab of pain hit Skinner -- he loved Mulder like a father loved a wayward son. Scully nodded knowingly, fighting to keep the tears that were circling in her eyes from falling. "I was hoping that this--" Skinner motioned toward the folders on his desk, " -- would give you something to focus on." He sighed inwardly. Usually he was fluent with his native language. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Agent Scully, I'm very concerned about you. You have to know that Agent Mulder would want you to continue in the X- Files. I want you to. The truth is closer than it may seem, Agent Scully." Her voice trembling, Scully took the files from Skinner's desk and silently saluted towards this man before her. "Thank you, sir." He had no idea how much this meant to her. Then she left the room just before the tears came splashing down her cheeks. * * * * * * * * * * * Sam wore this body like a new but uncomfortable suit. He had no idea what he was going to do. He apologized silently to this body, this other person, namely Paul Bibeau, whose family would have to suffer from this predicament Sam was in. He hadn't been keeping his behavior in check for the past few days, and it had caused quite a commotion in Bibeau's family. He chuckled despite himself. Well, they still had to thank him for saving Paul's life. Suddenly, their was a hiss, a crackle, and a slight hint of electric static in the air, and the hologram Sam came to know as Al, his best friend, appeared before him. Al's face was radiant -- and not just because he was a hologram, either. "Sam, Ziggy's got it all figured out! You are going to leap, my friend!" Sam grinned from ear to ear. "Wait, slow down, slow down. . .Then why keep me in this body for so long?" Al shrugged, like he didn't have a care in the world. "Who knows??" His eyebrows shot up in unison. "Ziggy doesn't know either. In fact, he says he doesn't, um, remember' the past days." "He doesn't *remember*?" "Well, he didn't say that, his files just indicate that the past few days virtually didn't exist in his system -- never happened!" Sam shook his head in disbelief, and he had to put his hands on Paul Bibeau's desk for support. "Wow." Al slapped a fist on his back so hard Sam was left choking for air. "Heehee, you've done it, Sam!! I'm sure this won't happen again!" "It better not--" Sam never finished his sentence, because in an instant flashes of blue electricity would tear through his body, Bibeau's body, sending him through the ripples in time and space to another body. He leapt. * * * * * * * * * * * He felt dizzy. Extremely dizzy. There was a black void before his eyes. . .and some glittery white lines shown off that black surface, causing similar lines to shine in the back of his eyes. Slowly his other sense came to, and he felt his hand grip on a wet, slippery, metallic substance. He was *sitting* on that substance. Tentatively, he let a hand move away from the substance. Big mistake. Before he knew it, Sam's whole body lurched forward and felt the inevitable pull of gravity. A huge pull. His other hand gripped on to what he now knew was a railing. . . and he now knew the black and white substance below him to be a river. "Oh boy." End Part 1b Once in every life Someone comes along And you came to me It was almost like a song January through December It was such a perfect year Then the flame became a dying ember All at once you weren't there Now my broken heart Cries for you each night It was almost like a song But it's much too sad to write --Johnny Hartman, "It Was Almost Like a Song" INPUT INPUT INPUT!!!!! Pleeeeez write me!!!! :) Saitiau@aol.com Author's Note: I know, I know. Sorry, EELS, I haven't gotten to the EE part yet. But fear not, our hero Gary *will* save the world once again. . . Once I get that cup of coffee. Wrinkles of Faith (2/7) by Fontaine (aka Orange Kat) "Oh boy." Sam tried unsuccessfully to lift his body up over the railing with his hands, and he felt the force of gravity get the better of him. So this was it. . .This was how he was going to die. He wondered what would happen if he let go. Would he leap? Or would he just die along with this poor soul's body whom he possessed? Would he-- "Mr. Greene?" --be able to escape this body in time? "Mr. Greene?!" Sam looked up as he realized the name being called was his--was the body's. He saw a man's anxious face peering down at him over the railing. He looked young, probably a thirty year old man, and he had handsome, earnest features. Sam did his best to muster up a breathless "Huh?", his legs flailing about in the air at the same time. He was conscious of the slightest ripple and gurgle in the stream below him now. The man raised his folded newspaper -- his *newspaper* -- and glanced at it. Then he addressed him again. "Are you Mark Greene?" Sam didn't know how to answer. "Am I Mark Greene?" It occurred to him that he oughtta ask the man to help, but the man kept on talking. "Listen, uh. . . You don't have to do this Mark. Listen to me, Mark. There's gotta be another way--I mean you can't give up!" Another glance at the newspaper. "Listen. . . Your friends. . .Mr. Ross and Mrs. Weaver. . .They're gonna be terribly sorry if you're gone." Another glance. "You. . You have a daughter! That's right, uh. . .Rachel. She's very young and she needs a father. She loves you very much. Now -- *please*." The man looked him in the eye sincerely. "Would you mind. . ." Sam's voice was barely a whisper, as he was straining to keep his grasp. "Excuse me?" The man looked at him blankly. Through gritted teeth: "GET. . .ME. . . OUTTA. . . HERE. . . " "Huh? *OH*!" So the young man finally got a brain. Sam had to stop himself from cursing as the man grappled both of his arms and pulled. His body slung forward, and he felt a wave of relief when both of his feet could touch the cement base of the bridge. When the man finally got him safely off the railing, Sam collapsed on the side walk and stared at the man standing in front of him, panting. After quite a while, Sam was finally able to say, "Who did you say I was again?" * * * * * * * * * * * * As the plane took another sudden jolt in the turbulent air current, Dana Scully felt a wave a nausea sweep over her. She was never good with airplanes. It was worse when she had to go over gruesome case details with Mulder the Bloody Corpse Magnet. She had to thank Skinner for giving her a case with no corpses attached -- which led her to think why exactly Skinner had given her this case. He had said he wanted her to have something to focus on--something to take her mind off Mulder. But still, she had her doubts. Being with Mulder all these years had made her paranoid . . . Trust no one, indeed. She wondered what Skinner meant by "the truth is closer than you think." Did it have anything to do with sending her to Chicago? Surely Skinner didn't think this case had enough evidence to constitute an X-File. All Scully saw in this case were delusional, schizophrenic people who belonged in the psychiatrist offices. There were five of them, to be exact. All reported experiences of memory loss and slight physical discomfort. They stated that it felt like "they weren't used to their bodies." And their families all claimed that the patients hadn't been "quite themselves" during the time which they couldn't recall. There was only one common area Scully could detect in all five patients--all had suffered some sort of mental or physical predicament before the lost their memory. So her conclusion was they ran into a little trouble, they couldn't face it, so they retreated into their inner core--thus causing the change in personality and loss of memory. Surely Skinner wasn't implying that this had to do with any form of alien abduction--she'd had it with aliens. No, she was going to go to Chicago, give them her best medical opinion, and leave as soon as possible. No sense spending time with a bunch of nutcases. She was going to spend a maximum of two days in Chicago, and fly straight back to D.C. Back to D.C. To do what? To spend the rest of her mortal life trapped in a basement room in which every small detail brought her pain and grief. Nooooooo. To investigate more trivial cases, dissect more dead bodies, go on more stakeouts and shootouts? Nooooooo. Though she grew to rely on that sense of danger, she didn't particularly look forward to going back to D.C., she realized. Dana Scully sighed. Looks like she was in for at least a one week stay. "Just to get a change in my life," She assured herself. The conspiracy and white haired men in D.C. could do without her for a while. Scully relaxed and settled back in her seat, and temporarily shut herself off from the outside world. * * * * * * * * * * * After doubly assuring the man who saved him that he was going to be okay, Sam began to search the contents of this man's pockets to find any source of identification. Ah, driver's license. . ."Mark Greene," nice enough name. "Wait. I'm *balding* now?" Sam muttered at the man on the plastic card. Age 39--and didn't that guy mention he had a daughter? Wait. . . How did he know? He couldn't--he couldn't be another Leaper, could he? Some way or the other, Sam sensed the man was doing his best to help other people. A sense of espirit de corps rose in his heart for this man. "Okay, now I just gotta go back to where this guy lives, and find out what I do. . ." He was alarmed by a frequent beeping noises emerging from his stomach. . . No it was a pager. Damn it, who the hell was it? He glanced at the pager--253. What-- "Sam!" Sam turned around and saw the image of Al with his precious control device in his hand. Relieved, he asked, "Okay, tell me what I'm doing here." "Er. . .Ziggy hasn't exactly figured out yet, but it seems to me that you just saved this guy's life--Dr. Mark Greene. Boy, this guy was about to jump off a bridge ya know! He has an eight year old daughter, named Rachel; now divorced from his wife, currently single. He works at the Cook County ER. Now if you could just get there--" "ER?? As in Emergency Room?? Woah, woah, Al, I can't go in there. I haven't operated on a patient for years. I can't go in there an remove body parts or stick needles into people." "Well, as long as you're here you've got to do what Mark does! Look, you can sort of. . . dodge the procedures. It won't be hard, Sam, you have five goddamn PhDs! We don't know how long you'll be here, and you can't always call in sick. Look, I'll try to get Ziggy to find out what's going on as soon as possible. Meanwhile, you'll just have to. . . Hang in there." Al shrugged his shoulders casually. "Whaddya mean 'dodge the procedures'? Oh, sure, gee, I suddenly forgot which patients are mine, I mean, people are gonna send me to a mental institute before I get a chance to save this guy from whatever he's gotta be saved from!" "Go -- in -- there -- and -- *find* -- *out*!!" "Hey, isn't that your job?" The image of Al gave another shrug and faded away with a hiss. Damn, it was so easy being a hologram. * * * * * * * * * * * Sam hailed a cab and asked to be driven to the Cook County ER. Absentmindedly, he noted that he was still wearing his surgical scrubs beneath his jacket. Damn, the pager had started beeping again. Somebody must be dyin' in that ER. The cab screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. Sam fumbled for cash in Mark's wallet and handed the driver a ten dollar bill. As the cab whisked off into the busy Chicago streets, Sam walked into the blinding lights of the hospital building, still bustling with activity at -- oh, good, this guy has a watch -- 10 p.m.?! "Wow, some people have worse jobs than I do." Taking a deep breath, he entered the front door of the building. He turned a few corners, bumped into a few people, but soon found himself at the busy center of the ER. Hospital personnel were running around everywhere with their latex gloves on, some stained with blood. There were shouts in the air: "We need a chest x- ray, EKG, stat ABG's and a chem seven!!" "Give me a neb treatment with ventolin and atrovent!!" Sam thought he could hear a baby crying. Outside, a screaming ambulance screeched to a halt, and two EMTs pushed a gurney inside--Sam looked away. This was one chaotic place, and he had to find a way to fit in. . . "Mark, where were you?? I've paged you three times already!!" A short redhead, also wearing scrubs, approached him. Sam stared at her blankly. "Mark? Mark, what's wrong?" Stammering, Sam tried to find a way out, "Yeah, uh, sorry. . . . I was, uh. . .s-sleeping." Still dazed by the activity in the emergency room, he managed to ask, "What did you page me for?" The female doctor stared at him as if he just told her he was an alien from Mars. She sounded tense but concerned. "Mark, do you need to take a break or something? There was a patient with a self-inflicted gun shot wound in two, but Peter filled in for you." Seeing that the man before her was still quite out of it, she softened her voice. "Look, why don't you go home and get a good night's sleep. I'll ask them not to page you. . . I know it's hard, Mark, but you've *got* to pull yourself together." With that, she turned and disappeared into the buzz and clutter of the emergency room. Once again, Sam was left alone, an outsider to this body, this world. Home. . . Yes, he should go see where this guy lived, try and find out something about his life . . . He wondered if he had a car. He wandered over to what he presumed was the reception area. A tall thickset man with a funny mustache was playing some video game on the computer; a beautiful brunette woman with pouty lips was chewing gum and talking on the phone, and another nurse was looking at some files. He wandered over to the white board, and he soon figured out it was a scheduler for the doctors. He groaned when he realized that his, or Mark Greene's, schedule was packed. He supposed he *could* just go home, if that doctor said so. . . "Hey, Mark, you okay?" The nurse who was looking at the files--she looked Italian, with brunette curls--tapped him on the shoulder. Why did everyone keep asking him that? Sam decided to take a dangerous step. "What's wrong with me?" For dramatic measure, he added a sigh and crinkled his brow. As he hoped, the nurse squeezed his forearm and looked him in the eye. "Mark, what happened to that boy wasn't your fault. You've got to stop blaming yourself. You are *not* a jerk, and you're not a racist. He died, and you were following correct medical procedures. You have to be strong." Sam nodded, feeling at once grateful towards this compassionate nurse. So this Mark did something to a patient that he regretted--but somehow, Sam felt it was more than that. The nurse continued. "Listen, I get off at eleven. Wanna go get a cup of coffee?" Sam wanted to comply, but he felt ready to collapse. "I'm sorry, but I. . . I'm really tired. I think I should go home." The nurse nodded her agreement. "I think you should too. But if you ever need to talk, Doug and I will be glad to help, you know that." Sam smiled, for the first time since he got "here." "Thanks." The nurse smiled and started to turn away. "Wait! Um. . . Do you know where my car is?" * * * * * * * * * * * * As she parked her car in front of the Bibeau's, Dana Scully felt relieved that this was the last house she had to visit. Soon she could type up a report to Skinner explaining how useless and unnecessary her investigation efforts had been, and get some good rest in the hotel. It was a pretty good one, that Blackstone Hotel, compared to the seedy motels she and Mulder had always stayed in. However, she missed those connecting doors terribly. If she had had the courage to open that connecting door and-- "No, Dana, can't think about that now." She repeated that three times to herself and knocked on the Bibeau's door. Paul Bibeau himself, a groggly but otherwise handsome man, opened the door. He eyed Scully suspiciously. "How may I help you?" Scully flashed her badge and said, "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions." Bibeau stared at her for a while, but he finally opened the door. "Sure," he said, gesturing for Scully to follow him. "Just take a seat and I'll be right back with my wife, okay?" Scully sat down on the sofa in the living room, mentally taking note of her surroundings. Nothing unsual about the house, typical of a suburban middle income family. The same as the others. Normal. Her thought were interrupted by Paul Bibeau and his wife, Marie. She stood up and shook hands with them. Then she got right down to the point. "Mr. Bibeau, can you tell me about your memory loss?" Paul looked slightly nervous, but her wife squeezed his hand and gave him the strength to continue. "Well, I don't know exactly what happened, but . . . " He took another deep breath, and continued. "About a month ago, I discovered that my boss was confiscating office revenues. He found out, and he threatened me. I was torn apart--I got threatening phone calls everyday, but I didn't feel that I was doing the right thing. I wanted to tell someone. One night I was walking from home. . . and two men. . .they attacked me. They beat me up. And that's the last I remember. Suddenly I was back in my own room, and I don't remember how I got there. My wife told me that two weeks had passed and my boss had been sentenced to eight years in jail. She said I was the one who reported him and the attackers. But the truth is, I don't remember any of this." Scully nodded. Well, there you have it, she thought to herself. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. "And how did you feel after you . . . came back?" she asked. "Well, I felt sore at first. Like I was asleep for a long time. I was so tired I just lied down on the floor, until my wife found me there. And the strangest thing was, I would look at my hands and think that they weren't mind. Like I switched heads with somebody, you know?" Scully managed to smile at that. Switched heads. Sounded like a certain Eddie Van Blundht. Then, she turned to Marie. "Mrs. Bibeau, you mentioned in your statement--" she stole a glance at her notes, "that you felt Mr. Bibeau acted like he was a 'completely different person' during the period he couldn't recall. Can you be more specific?" Marie seemed to lose herself in thought for a while. "Have you ever felt that someone was acting weird, but you couldn't say exactly how? Like, he. . .I mean, when Paul. . .When he was. . ." Scully nodded to show that she understood what Marie was trying to get at. "He looked the same, he was still Paul Bibeau on the outside, but I just felt like he was a totally different person." Unwillingly, the images of Eddie Van Blundht as Mulder one Saturday evening in her apartment, on the couch entered Scully's mind. She forced them out. "Can you list some specific examples, Mrs. Bibeau?" "Well, it was mainly these little things. . . It comes with being around a person you love for a long time, you know?" Yes, Scully knew. "He walked a different way. He talked a different way. He said he didn't remember my name, or our daughter's name. He didn't know where the bathroom was. He couldn't remember where he put his own underwear. It was like. . .someone else took over his mind." "And yet he knew enough to report the incident of his boss's confiscation and harassment to the police?" "Yes--that was about two, three days after he started acting differently. He started asking me philosophical questions. He seemed confused at times, almost sad. It was. . ." Marie shook her head--"freaky." "And Mr. Bibeau, you don't remember any of this? Not even vaguely?" Paul Bibeau shook his head sadly. Scully couldn't stifle a sigh. Freaky it was. And frustrating, too. The past four patients all provided the same information more or less, but she doubted these four were connected. She had the feeling of going endless on a straight line again, getting nowhere--and she had begun to wonder why Skinner gave her this case in the first place, considering no apparent crime had been committed. Once again, she stood up, shook the couple's hands, mumbled something about needing further investigation. As she approached her car, Marie came running out after her. "Agent Scully, wait." "Yes?" "I need to tell you something -- I haven't told anyone. . . And I didn't tell Paul because I didn't want him to worry. I heard the other Paul talk to someone called Al. I heard him say 'Why keep me in this body for so long?' or something like that. Do you know what it means, Agent Scully?" Scully could hear the Mulder in her head jumping to conclusions about people possessed by spirits. "I can't imagine I would. But I assure you there's nothing wrong with your husband now." She put a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. "He's going to be fine." Marie squeezed out a smile and watched the female agent leave. * * * * * * * * * * * With much assuring his fellow coworkers that he was fine, Sam finally found his way back to Mark's apartment. It was clean, organized, masculine. The bookshelves consisted mainly of medical journals, and a surprisingly large collection of Stephen King. After a a few minutes of rummaging around, he found a journal tucked under the pile of medical reports on Mark's desk. Making himself comfortable on the bed, Sam started to read, to really get to know "himself." "Everything started to go wrong after Susan left . . ." End Part 2 Oh carry on Nothing really matters I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all Oh carry on Nothing really matters To me -- The Braids, "Bohemian Rhapsody" This part is for Lydia Bower and the beautiful "Dance Without Sleeping"; and for Jill Verenkoff, a wonderful English teacher. Police procedures completely made up. Wrinkles of Faith (3a/7) by Fontaine L. (aka Orange Kat) The room was smoke filled, as usual; there were voices, but the faces remained hidden behind the thin veil of smoke and darkness -- they have always been in the dark, haven't they? The voices spoke, and one couldn't tell which belonged to whom -- these men had long since lost their identities. They'd become masks, mere machines. "Where is she now?" "Chicago." "I see we need to have a little chat with Mr. Skinner. . .what about Snow?" "She has no knowledge." "Good. . . good. . .all is going well then." And then the shadows merged with silence and disappeared. * * * * * * * * * * * Sam felt slightly more confident when he strode into the ER the next morning. He had read Mark's journal, took a look at his apartment -- he had become quite an expert at analyzing physical surroundings by now -- and he believed he knew the center of Mark's problem. He was running away from the world. Poor Mark . . . the woman he loved left him, his patients didn't appreciate him; he pushed away his friends, *and* he had gotten beat up. Sam shook his head . . . poor Mark. It was that red-headed doctor again. Taking a chance, he ventured, "Kerry?" The woman smiled, so Sam silently congratulated himself for interpreting Mark's journal correctly. "You feeling better, Mark?" Sam gave Kerry the biggest grin he could muster up. He decided that if he wanted to get Mark's life back on track, he should start from improving Mark's relationships with his co-workers. Kerry seemed satisfied with Mark's demeanor, so she nodded her approval and left. It was only six in the morning, and the ER was already bustling with activity. Already one patient had died due to excessive bleeding--must've woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Sam pondered. A young man--Sam presumed him to be Dr. John Carter--gave him a shove on the back. "Mark, your patient is waiting for you." "My patient? Oh, my patient, ah yes. . ." Sam gave his coworker yet another smile, and ventured toward the direction Carter pointed. He found a middle- aged man lying behind one of the curtains. "I'm Dr. Greene--you are my patient?" The man seemed exasperated. "No, I'm your father. OF COURSE I'm your patient, I've been here for one hour! You told me you'd be here at 5--in case you didn't notice, I *do* have a demanding job!!" "Ah, sorry. . . and your name is?" "Now you forget my name?! Doctor, I'm beginning to think there's something weird about you today. You feelin' okay? I'm Chris. C-H-R-I-S, Chris. Get it??" He was practically yelling. "Oh, hi Chris. Well, shall we begin?" "Aren't you supposed to bring my chart?" "Chart? Yes. If you'll please wait for a second. . . Kerry!!!" * * * * * * * * * * * By the time lunchtime came, Sam was exhausted. Unaccustomed to ER procedures and long distanced from medical jargon, he had a pretty hard time convincing his patients--and the nurses, for that matter--that he was indeed feeling fine, and he was a fine doctor, too. Several suspicious yet concerned glances were tossed his way from his coworkers, but Sam believe that by now he had persuaded them that he was back on track--just suffering from fatigue, that's all. Hopefully, he'd be leaping soon. He was in the locker room, just getting ready to go out to lunch when Doug Ross brought in two uniformed policemen. The policemen acted as if they were old pals with Mark--so Sam assumed they were the ones who interrogated him about the beating. "Hello, Officers." Sam shook their hands pleasantly. The taller officer spoke first. "Dr. Greene, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you're gonna have to come down to the station with us. We found more suspects of your beating, so . . . you might wanna try to identify them." Then the other officer interrupted with a sigh. "Dr. Greene, to be completely truthful with you, reports have shown you haven't been . . . stable lately. Now, we won't do anything to you, you don't have to worry. You just have to come down to the station and give us some reports concerning your recent behavior. Then we will continue with the investigation." Sam was left in disbelief for a second--so, they thought he was insane. They were going to lock him up! No, it can't be that serious. They said all they needed was a report, right? He gritted his teeth and stood up resolutely. Mark needed help, and he was his only hope. * * * * * * * * * * * Scully could almost muster up enough spirit to whistle a tune as he drove down to the Chicago Police Department. Her work here was officially over--it was simpler than she had expected. With insufficient evidence to support whatever theory she could come up with, she would just claim that the patients were suffering from mental disabilities caused by prolonged stress. Soon she would be relaxing herself in the hotel and strolling the Chicago streets. Then, she would be able to head back to D.C. Back to the X-Files, and back to Mulder's basement office. God, she missed that basement. She went into Detective Crumb's--the chief of the department who had requested the FBI's help in the first place--office and rattled off her conclusions half-heartedly. When she finished, she could tell from Crumb's expression that he wasn't buying it, yet he couldn't deny it either. Finally, after what seemed like decades of silence, Crumb let out a sigh, and almost as if he was apologizing to her, said, "We appreciate your help Agent Scully, and we hate to take up more of your time. But we have just found another man suffering from similar symptoms. You might wanna check him out, see if you can find anything new." "Alright, where is he?" Scully didn't wear any expression, although all she wanted to do was throttle the old man. "He's in the interrogation room. Officer Kline is with him." "Alright, I'll check on him now." When Scully arrived at the room, Officer Kline gave her a brief report. It seems that the man, Mark Greene, a doctor at the county ER, had been a victim of a random act of violence--yet in the course of investigating his case, the police department had found that his recent behavior had been rather erratic, his diagnoses often careless, if not incorrect. He also seemed less able to concentrate on his patients, and his temper grew short, according to his coworkers. Witnesses have reported that he pulled a gun on a few gangsters who were threatening him. It was only today when the officers interrogated him about his actions that they discovered he was also suffering from memory loss. According to the hospital, he had been having trouble recalling the names of his patients and friends, and he didn't remember where he parked his car--this unusual behavior started only yesterday. They were still investigating what happened to him the day before when Scully went in to talk to him. Scully mentally noted the man's appearance before she spoke. He seemed calm, mild- mannered, and intelligent. Something must've caused him to snap. She shook hands with Mark Greene. "Good afternoon, Dr. Greene. I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI, and I'm just going to ask you a few questions, okay?" She even gave him a smile, because she sympathized with this broken soul--and she received a smile in return. "Dr. Greene--can you tell me about your memory loss?" Now Sam had to be careful. What could he tell this woman that wouldn't come back and haunt Mark after he was long gone? "I. . .I'm not sure," he stammered--and then he had an idea. "I was hoping you could tell *me* about it. I mean, I don't know what hit me yesterday. Guess it was the stress of from working in the ER, huh?" Hey, now *there's* a rational explanation, thought Scully. Since the man himself seemed to know what was happening to him, she felt there was no other reason for her to be here. "Agent Scully?" It was Crumb, he poked his head in the doorway. "Yes?" "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think you better come see this man." With an amused smile, he stated, "He's a walking and talking X-File." End Part 3a Wrinkles of Faith (3b/7) by Fontaine L. (aka Orange Kat) "Agent Scully, I'd like you to meet Mr. Hobson." The first thing she noticed about Mr. Hobson was that Crumb treated him as if he were an annoying relative--he trusted him, relied on him, yet didn't particularly welcome his presence. The second thing she noticed was that this man had a special aura about him that reminded her of an old man she met on a past case, Clyde Bruckman, a man who could see into the future. He also seemed to carry a burden about him, so that though he was young, his features made him look world-weary beyond his years. She shrugged off this odd feeling before shaking his hand. Hobson seemed nervous when he shook Scully's hand--one thing was for certain: he wasn't a bad man. Crumb had briefly told her about Hobson's past rendezvous with the police department, about his frequently knowing things before they happened, and she felt very curious about the man herself. Crumb had recounted several incidents when Gary would arrive ranting and raving like a lunatic, only to have his predictions come true when nobody believed him. At first, Crumb had suspected Gary plotted the "accidents," then "prevented" them from happening to draw attention to himself. But a background check on a man came clean--not even a parking ticket on his speckless record. Eventually, Crumb had came to trust the man, even though his information source remained a mystery. After assuring Crumb that Dr. Greene was feeling just fine, Scully left the building with Hobson. "So, Mr. Hobson. . . do you want to tell me more about yourself?" "Just call me Gary," he replied wearily. "Okay, Gary. Are you some sort of a psychic?" Scully was surprised that she actually *said* that word--but there was something about this man that was special. "Look, I don't understand what this is about." Gary snapped back at her. "Every time I try to help you people, you think I'm trouble." "Gary, calm down. It was a simple question. People saw you save Dr. Greene just in the nick of time yesterday. Detective Crumb said himself that you always seem to be at the right place at the right time. You know things other people don't. I assure you that we are not trying to harm you. All I want to know is how you knew that Dr. Greene needed help." "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me." "Trust me, Gary, I have seen a *lot* of things." "Yeah, well, you haven't seen this." * * * * * * * * * * * It turned out that Gary lived in the same hotel that she was staying at, Blackstone. Why exactly didn't he have a house he refused to explain to her. He only told her that he would explain how he knew about the future, and it was up to her if she wanted to believe him or not, but that she should *never* tell anyone. When Gary unlocked his door and let Scully in, they were both surprised to find another man in Gary's room. Gary immediately exclaimed, "Chuck, what are you doing here?" The man named Chuck was a short young man in his early thirties, though he had a round face with an already receding hairline. Overall, not very impressive, thought Scully. "What's the matter, Gar, this is me you're talking about! I came by to visit you and you weren't here, so I uh, made myself comfortable!" Just then, Scully stepped into the room and Chuck's mouth formed a huge O. "And who is this beautiful lady we have here?" Scully shook hands with Chuck--and took a little effort to free her small hand from Chuck's grasp. "Dana Scully -- I'm with the FBI, and I'm here in Chicago investigating a case. Your friend Gary was going to . . . help me," she said, not sure if Chuck knew about Gary's secrets. She looked to her side, only to see Gary was already seeking out the damage in his kitchen. From time to time she could here him yell out to Chuck about misplacing some jar or emptying another. Meanwhile his friend Chuck was busying drooling all over her. "So, what do you say, *Agent* Scully, I could show you around Chicago, Gary here doesn't know how to enjoy his life. I, on the other hand, am a very cultural man." "I'm sorry, Chuck, but I'm here in Chicago for strictly business affairs." Scully thought. "Well, you found just the right guy. I can be very business-like if you want. I'm a stock broker, you see, and I always know--" At this point Gary stepped in between the two of them. "Chuck, get out of here." "Hey, don't be such a bore, Gary, Agent Scully and I were just getting to know each other--" In response, Gary opened the door to his room. "See you tomorrow, Chuck." Chuck gave him one last glare before he walked out reluctantly. He didn't forget to give Scully one of his best smiles, "Hey, if you ever--" Scully never head the last part of his sentence, because Gary had already slammed the door shut. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I thought he was your friend." She remarked as they both took a seat. "He is, and I'd like to keep it that way," Gary replied dryly. "Would you like some coffee or anything?" "That's okay, Gary. Actually I'm pretty anxious to hear what you have to tell me." Gary visibly squirmed in his seat like an eight year old being caught in the act of finishing all the choclate chip cookies. Scully smiled her encouragement. "Well?" Gary took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. And then, as if determined to finish this, the words started pouring out of him. Scully didn't believe a word she was hearing. A magic paper that comes with a cat? That was just too cute to be true. . . Yet, some part of her, deep inside, wanted to believe. If Gary was a liar, he definitely was a very good one. During his account of his journeys of the past year, Scully was moved to tears several times. She could understand his frustration, his reluctance, and his despair--and, as Chuck said, he definitely didn't seem to be enjoying himself very much. And wasn't understanding what it took to believe? And yet she, being Scully, remained skeptical. Was this man simply delusional, living in a self-created world of fantasy? Briefly, she considered getting the hell out of Chicago, back to DC where she could face her demons. The reminiscents of Mulder in her told her there was something going on here worth investigating. "Gary?" she ventured. "Yeah," "You okay?" "I'm fine." Scully couldn't help but chuckle, despite the circumstances. That was *her* line. "Listen, I still don't know whether to believe you or not. I want to, trust me. It must be hard, doing what you did--if, you did it, of course. Sometimes I wonder if what I'm doing is right, too. You know I've met people like you--people that didn't want to accept what God gave them." Involuntarily, her hand reached up to her neck and she touched the small golden cross there. "Because although the gifts made them special, they also brought them pain. These 'gifts' brought them pain because they often blame themselves for what had been and what might be. They were the most fragile of people, because they think they are shouldering the world," By now, tears started to well in her eyes. Oh, too many were to blame, and most of all her. "Maybe what we both need is a little faith. . .a little faith to carry us on." Scully cursed herself for breaking down in front of a stranger, and yet she didn't think of Gary as one. "I know, Agent Scully," Gary just gazed at her for a while, and finally replied after what seemed like a very long time, "I think I understand." Scully took a deep breathe and decided to stay, at least for the night, in Chicago to see what would happen. After all, what was in DC? After thanking Gary, Scully rode the elevator down to her own room and flopped down on the bed, willing herself to sleep. No such luck. She barely slept at all these days, because whenever she closed her eyes, the image of Mulder holding a gun to his head would invariably creep up on her sense and haunt her until she was forced to open her eyes again. Only when it came to the wee hours and she was almost exhausted to death from her mental battle, would she slip wearily off to a land that had become distant to her, a land called sleep. Right now, she wasn't even near the place. And somehow, she knew Gary wasn't either. She felt sorry for him-- what he told her this afternoon apparently brought back many nightmares for him. * * * * * * * * * * * Scully awoke when the very first rays of light from dawn peeked through the windowsills and caressed her face. It was a good night's sleep, actually--the first in weeks. The silently thanked the kind man that was Gary Hobson--wait, the paper! She checked her watch -- it was only 5 am now. Much as she tried, she couldn't go back to sleep, so after a while she decided to go up to Gary's room to check out his story, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading Gary's privacy. His door wasn't locked, but he was still sound asleep, evident from his snores. She started pacing around the living room, looking at some of the books on Gary's bookshelf. A glistening object caught her eye -- it was a golden lighter -- funny, she didn't think Gary smoked. The initials JTM were etched on the surface, and they instantly reminded her of another cigarette smoking man she knew and resented. Wincing, the put the lighter back on the shelf. She chose a copy of "Moby Dick" and began to read. The seconds and minutes passed. Before she knew it, it was already 6:30am--the time Gary said the paper would arrive. Scully put the book back on the shelf, and stared absentmindedly at the door. The anticipation was almost killing her. Deep down, she refused to believe such a fantastical thing could happen, much less everyday. Another part of her said that it was time to suspend her disbeliefs; though she still harbored doubts. Suddenly, there was a "thump" and a "meow," and slowly, as if afraid of what she might see, Scully opened the door. Almost immediately, an orange-colored cat went racing past her and into the kitchen, looking for food. Hands trembling, Scully picked up the copy of Chicago Sun-Times. Sure enough, the date was tomorrow's . . . but that proved nothing. There was nothing on the front page that was significant, so she flipped further into the paper. On the fourth page, she stumbled upon an article that froze her heartbeat and clenched at her throat: FEDERAL AGENT FROM D.C. SHOT DEAD ON CHICAGO STREETS End Part 3b Don't you know If you change Things will go your way If you hold on for one more day Hold on --Wilson Phillips, "Hold On"