Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created by Chris Carter and Ten- Thirteen Productions. Characters used without permission. No copyright infringement intended. TITLE: Ashes to Ashes AUTHORS: Obfusc8er and Jenna EMAIL: aobfuscata@hotmail.com, jennasxffic@lycos.com ARCHIVE: Two weeks exclusively on VS11; others please ask first. RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: X, MT, MSR SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully are participating in a multi-agency public safety project when serious threats emerge, both old and new. AUTHORS' NOTES: Includes the re-introduction of Agent Grif Michelin and Carlos, Vickie Moseley's creations in Great Balls of Fire, used here with her permission. You are encouraged to read her story before this one. Also contains quotes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, written by Chapmen, Cleese, et al., property of FOX. Rousch Pharmaceuticals is a fictional entity, also owned by FOX. Thank you to Sally and Jamie for the excellent betas. We would also like to recognize Vickie for her indispensable suggestions, encouragement, and guidance during the course of the writing of this story. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Key to organization abbreviations used: CDC - The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention FBI - Federal Bureau of Investigation FEMA - Federal Emergency Management Agency NG - National Guard SBCCOM - US Army Soldier and Biological Chemical Command USAMRIID - United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases WHO - World Health Organization xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx ***TEASER*** Federal Building Plaza Indianapolis, Indiana Pleasant wind coaxed a rippling wave from the grass and rows of flags adorning Military Park, oblivious of the bodies scattered across the plaza. They lay in the street, on the steps of a nearby news building, and in front of a quiet formation of colorful standards representing dozens of nations. As still as the bodies were, the vestigial quiet of the scene had long since fallen to the din of law enforcement officers, medical personnel, firemen, and others attempting to organize and deal with the situation. Survivors called out for help, some of them screaming in pain, others babbling incoherently. Countless emergency vehicle sirens were still converging on the site, adding to the noise. Special Agent Dana Scully stood right in the middle of the chaos. She was carefully taking note of the activities around her, but she remained focused on her own current goal: directing the removal of the bodies. The two-way radio attached to her jacket crackled to life, and the weary voice of a city coroner's office employee informed her that 300 body bags were on the way. "Thank you. When should those be arriving?" "ETA fifteen minutes." "Okay. Please see if any of the outlying hospitals have more bags to spare and have them on standby, just in case." "Will do." A click and a second of static signaled the end of the conversation. Scully turned to the Indiana State Police lieutenant standing next to her, politely waiting until he finished barking a line of orders into his own walkie-talkie. He noticed her attention, and looked at her expectantly. "Orders, Ma'am?" "Yes. Have your men set up a perimeter around the deceased. We want to minimize unnecessary contact. Guide civilians to triage, and keep all other emergency personnel away from the bodies. If anyone has an issue with that, have their supervisor contact me." "Right away." The man moved off to brief a nearby circle of officers on their new duty. Scully sighed and rolled her head around in a counterclockwise circle, stretching tired neck muscles. She surveyed the mass of people and equipment before her with scrutinizing but tired eyes. Men and women wearing jackets emblazoned with various initials worked furiously to organize and coordinate hundreds of disaster victims, some of whom bore the bright red marks of casualty. The FEMA representatives remained at a temporary tent station, where they consulted with offsite officials in determining the overall course of action. Agents of the CDC overlooked the early diagnosis, quarantine, and treatment efforts of the Red Cross and local medical authorities. State and local police organizations were just now receiving reinforcements for their own organizations' efforts in the form of a detail from the Indiana National Guard. Scully's own agency, the FBI, fought to preserve the integrity of all available evidence of possible terrorism at the scene and pitched in wherever their expertise could be of aid. The US Army's biological and chemical response team, SBCCOM, was also present at the affair, helping direct and maintain the overall chain of interagency command, along with the National Joint Terrorism Task Force. The thought of the reams of imminent paperwork to be done made Scully's head hurt, on the verge of bursting. Finally, her two-way radio crackled to life again, and a deep voice boomed out of the handset, along with those of everyone milling around her. "Ladies and gentlemen, our daily objectives have been met. Stage four of TOPOFF is complete. Please report to your field supervisor for debriefing before departure, and return to your assigned posts at 0730 hours tomorrow." A palpable sense of relief accompanied the collective sigh heard upon the completion of the message. The blessing of the Joint Terrorism Task Force was upon the throng of laborers. Equipment was already starting to be packed up for a night's storage when Scully began stepping carefully around the field of "bodies". She stopped and looked down, eyebrow raised, when she came to one still form lying supine on the smooth concrete incline next to the steps of the news building. It was a male, covered in crimson, with feet propped up on the low, flat finial of the railing and hands clasped behind its head. The face had relaxed into an image of eternal peace. "Mulder, get up." No response. She leaned closer and spoke in a louder voice. "Mulder!" "Wha?" He jumped, startled awake, and nearly fell off of the concrete railing. "It's over for today. You don't have to be dead again until tomorrow morning." A sly smile spread across his face, white teeth showing through the red of fake blood. "I'm not quite dead, yet," he protested in his best lousy British accent. "I think I'll go for a walk." Scully grinned in spite of the weariness pulling at her. "So," he inquired, sitting up with interest, "how did the drill go today?" "Surprisingly well, actually. Now, let's go get you cleaned up. You look like death warmed over." *** ACT ONE *** Holiday Inn Express Indianapolis, Indiana It was late when Mulder and Scully arrived back at the motel, and both were exhausted from their long day. Wasting no time, Scully opened her purse, removing the motel keycard to gain entrance into her spacious room. She heard the thump of the adjoining room's door as it closed. Mulder had been quiet during the car ride, she mused. Even for him. Scully began to organize her paperwork for the night. The muffled rush of water in the plumbing system was soon followed by rapping on the door that separated her room from his. It was already unlocked. "Come in," she called, appreciative of his politeness, spotty as it was. "I'm dead tired, Scully," Mulder proclaimed as he dragged himself into the room and flopped face-down onto her queen sized bed. He reached blindly for the remote control on the nightstand and pointed it in the general direction of the television. It blinked to life. He lifted one arm slightly glancing at the screen from the gap between his armpit and the bed. An NCAA playoff game was on, Scully noticed. Duke versus UConn. Mulder groaned and lowered his arm. It must not have been going the way he wanted. "I'm worn out, too. I've been craving a nice, hot shower." Scully rolled her neck around in slow circles, the tension of the evening manifesting in audible pops from her spine. Her muscles ached from standing in high heels on the hard concrete for most of the day. She decided that staging a mock disaster for a terrorism exercise was definitely strenuous work. "Mmmph." Mulder's deep, rumbling reply dissipated into the comforter on the bed. She knew that he must have been truly exhausted when her mention of a shower did not provoke some positive lavatory taxis on his part. Scully divested herself of her clothing on the way to the bathroom. Turning on the spray, she found that the deliciously warm water sluicing over her tired and aching muscles was more relaxing than anything that she had encountered all day. Well, except for taking quick peeks at her partner. She had chosen to wear a suit that accented her best features and caught Mulder glancing at her on several occasions. Scully had just smiled at him in response. She knew those reserved reactions drove him crazy. Despite the long and tiring conditions of the day, she decided that she was glad she had taken on the terrorism readiness exercise. At first, it had angered her that A.D. Cassidy had even suggested she and Mulder go on the assignment. Her inbox was already overflowing with requisitions forms, autopsy reports, and case summaries that needed her review and signature. However, in reflection, Scully realized that her no-nonsense attitude had given her the edge the drill's organizers were looking for. She had excelled today, shouting orders and dealing with demands, and had everyone around her carrying out her every directive. With her shower completed, she donned a set of pajamas. Scully carefully sat on the soft bed and leaned against the pillows, trying not to disturb Mulder's obvious slumber. She reached for the file folder on the night stand and opened the latest notes on their most recent case. She smiled slightly as she fingered the pages of the unfinished portion of Mulder's report, recalling how they had gotten into a small argument about the paranormal aspects of the case, or more accurately, the lack thereof. Not an argument. A discussion. She had not been quite sure what to do with herself after the case was resolved without the slightest hint of alien, mutant, or boogey-man involvement. In the end, she settled for winning a bet that Mulder's venture into internet smut-writing would not last two weeks. He had taken her to a new, cozy diner close to her apartment and laughed over copies of the e-mails he had received. They both agreed that the place had a great ambiance and decided to visit again. Scully smiled at the memory, stood from the bed, and quietly fished around in her briefcase for the requisitions. Sitting at the motel's desk, she opened her laptop and prepared herself for the long evening ahead. Twenty minutes into typing her report, she stood to stretch. Her muscles had tightened again, still tired from the stress of the day's drill exercises. Deep in thought, Scully was startled by a clap of thunder. She sat down and resumed her typing on the case file notes, saving them every few minutes so that they would not be lost. She had learned her lesson in Bellefleur years ago. Scully worked as quickly as possible, oblivious to the snores arising from her partner. Finally, at about 2 AM, she put the finishing touches on the last report, saved it, and shut the computer off. She also unplugged the laptop to prevent power surge damage. Scully picked up her terrorism drill procedure manual and slipped under the covers of her bed, wishing she had brought a novel to read, instead. She knew without a doubt that the manual would lull her to sleep in record time, though. Mulder did not budge when she propped up her pillows and situated herself to read, and she did not have the heart to disturb his sleep. She watched him for a few minutes, soaking up the innocent, child-like expression on his face. She even found the little puddle of drool forming on his pillow endearing. With a sigh, she tore her eyes away from Mulder and tried to concentrate on the manual. Her valiant effort to study was doomed, however. Within a matter of minutes, true to Midwest form, a loud blast of thunder shook the room, and lightening streaked across the night sky. The room was plunged into darkness. ****** Rousch Pharmaceuticals Research Division Indianapolis, Indiana "What do you mean the formula isn't ready?" "I'm sorry sir, but we haven't had the proper amount of time to prepare it as you requested." "Well, get it finished! We don't have a lot of time, and the contract ends this week. It has to happen before then." The man tousled his hair in frustration at the latest developments. "Sir, if I may ask. What exactly are you planning to do with this formula?" the lab technician asked meekly. "That is none of your business. Just do your job as you are told!" The man stormed out of the conference room, annoyed. Hans Gregor walked back to his office, flipped on the computer, and typed in the password, gaining entry into his e-mail. Noting there was nothing of importance, he swiftly scanned over the messages without opening them. Near the end of the list, a subject stood out in red bold letters. Apprehension settled in as small beads of sweat quickly accumulated on his forehead. Before opening the e-mail, he looked around his office to make sure no one was looking. The message popped up on his monitor with one click of the mouse. Carefully, Gregor regarded the e-mail and pondered his next option. He didn't know exactly how he had gotten mixed up with this, but he certainly knew why. He also knew that he had to speed up the process, even if it meant that he had to call on the external sources he had come to despise. Griffith Michelin made all men look like angels, even considering himself in the equation. He was reluctant to turn to Michelin. Gregor was not accustomed to dealing with dregs. He had been impressed when Michelin managed to wring an acquittal from what appeared to be an open-and-shut conviction. However, even Michelin did not escape the stigma of the accusations, and he was drummed out of the Bureau in short order. The whole matter was distasteful to Gregor. Unseemly. However, after the careful planning of Gregor's concept to test the formula, it was inevitable that it would fall through without outside help. Still, he realized he had no choice but to throw a bone to the old dog. Gregor gave him a position as a Public Information Officer for Rousch Pharmaceuticals in addition to other...responsibilities. Picking up the phone, he heard the dial tone, jabbed at the buttons and waited for Michelin to answer his cell phone. "Michelin." "It's me. We've got a problem." "Just so you know, the word problem does not exist in my vocabulary, Hans. So what can I help you with?" he sneered audibly. "These idiots your guys hired have screwed up the original samples and are starting the process over from scratch. There is no way we'll be ready for this little shindig we have planned. Any ideas on how we can speed this up?" "Let me think about it and I'll get back with you." "Just don't wait...too long." Before Gregor could say anything further, Michelin had disconnected the call. Gregor slung the phone against the desk. "Damn, we don't have time for this!" Drawing his hands through his thick chestnut hair, he sighed, pushed away from his desk, and stood to leave for the evening, unsure of what would happen if this didn't pan out as expected. All he knew was that there was an equation at work here. He was a part of that equation, as a representative of Rousch, as was *Agent* Mulder, and it all added up to delayed but determined revenge... This was one project he was determined to see through to the end. ****** Holiday Inn Express Indianapolis, Indiana "Mmmmm..." Scully felt like she was in a dream world as something soft and fuzzy moved enticingly across her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her eyes forced themselves open and found Mulder propped up next to her, eyeing her appreciatively. "Morning." "Morning, sleepyhead. You ready to start the second day of the drill? Of course, as you can see I'm ready and 'dying' to go." He laughed at his own pun, a mischievous glint in his eyes. She smiled at his contagious good mood that had started affecting her before she even got out of bed. "Nice way to wake up." Scully sat up and stretched. She leaned over and gave Mulder a quick peck on the cheek before rising from the bed and padding toward the bathroom. "Give me 30 minutes and I'll be ready." "Okay, but hurry. We want to eat breakfast before we go. I heard someone say today's operations are going to be much longer than yesterday's." Mulder heard her groan and smiled to himself. He walked back into his own room to get himself ready. He had a tough time shaking the remnants of sleep from his mind, so he decided to start easy. Television. Flipping through the channels, he came across a local news station, which was showing excerpts of the success of yesterday's drill. The view briefly showed Scully shouting orders to everyone around her, and then swept across the disaster area to reveal bodies strewn all about, being tended by various medical personnel. The screen also showed the head of a local pharmaceutical company's terrorism simulation team, his face obscured by a dozen microphones. He was speaking to the reporter about yesterday's events. Something struck Mulder very odd as he looked at the man. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but Mulder couldn't place him. He listened intently as the reporter continued to talk to the man. Suddenly, reading the scroll on the bottom of the screen, his worst fears had come true. The man was none other than the former Agent Grif Michelin. Michelin? Mulder could not believe he had managed to stay out of prison, much less finagle his way into a high-profile job already. A position of authority, nonetheless. Mulder was immediately suspicious. Michelin could pose a serious threat to everyone involved with the project. Mulder cast a reflexive glance toward the door adjoining Scully's room. The sound of the shower would have masked the familiar voice coming from the television. Mulder began weighing his options, looking back and forth between the glowing screen and the closed door. Scully was under a lot of pressure, and her role in the terrorism response team was vital. Mulder did not want to compound any organizational problems or be the cause of more weight on her shoulders. He knew she would not approve of him rushing in for covert investigation on his own, but he had met a couple of guys from the local CDC office who might be willing help... *** ACT TWO *** Greenview Court Carmel, Indiana The phone rang, filling the room with its shrill rhythm. A shaky hand shot out to answer the call. Bleary eyes opened to see "4:45 AM" glaring bright blue from the alarm clock. The disoriented man choked the receiver with a white-knuckle grip and simultaneously bumped his half-empty tumbler of scotch with his elbow. It teetered on the edge of the mahogany bed stand for a moment before plummeting to the floor. Gregor did not appreciate the irony, knowing that a stain was slowly expanding on his ivory carpet. "Hello?" he barked, an edge of irritation in his tone. "You really shouldn't be drinking. Bad for your liver," a deep, gruff voice answered. Gregor's eyes widened at the cryptic remark. A chill ran up his spine as he pushed the covers aside and walked over to the bedroom window. He carefully parted the curtain, looking into the dim light of pre-dawn for a surveillance vehicle. "Who is this?" Gregor's voice was much more tentative. "A secret admirer." Gregor recognized the man, the voice no longer disguised. "Michelin, you don't have time to play games. The people you contracted have failed to adhere to the schedule we agreed upon. Other parties are growing dissatisfied. This had better be good news." Gregor paused, allowing Michelin time to consider his statement. Their fates were tied together. If one of them failed, they would both fry. "Very, very good news." Gregor paced back and forth next to his bed while awaiting a reply. His right foot felt a cold squish as it found the wasted scotch. He stopped and closed his eyes in an attempt to suppress his anger. "It's all taken care of. I found an...alternate source." Michelin cleared his throat, implying that Gregor was better off not knowing the particulars. "The solution's concentration is lower, but the effectiveness will not be compromised. It will do its job. Should be ready for you today, about 1 PM." "You'd better be damned sure. And what about our friend Carlos?" "I'm taking care of that personally," Michelin purred. "I'm going to get some work out of him first." Gregor could almost see the malicious grin spread across his face. "You have a lot of work to do. Better get to it. I expect a report ASAP." "Will do, Hans. Nice pajamas, by the way. Yellow is definitely your color." The line clicked before Gregor could respond. He felt the heat rise in his ears. He set the handset in its cradle with excess force. Michelin was becoming a constant source of frustration...but Gregor would have to put up with him in order to rid himself of a larger problem. The tantalizing promise of revenge sparked his mind, despite the early hour. He picked up the tumbler and headed toward the kitchen, practicing the events to come over and over in his imagination. The glass was left on the counter, the carpet stain immediately forgotten, as Gregor's attention was diverted by a brown cardboard box sitting on the bar table. Its innocuous appearance contrasted with the fact that it had not been sitting there the night before. Gregor opened a cabinet drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors automatically, never taking his eyes off of the box. He rushed over to it like a child hurrying to open birthday gifts. The package bore no labels, but he did not need any to know the contents. Tape split cleanly between steel blades, and Gregor unfolded the leaves of the box top. He lifted the upper half of the high-density Styrofoam packing and removed the information packet, placing it on the table for later perusal. He ripped open the sealed plastic bag with his bare hands, finally revealing the cargo inside. Gregor pulled the metal canister from its housing and cradled it in his hands, his eyes fixed on the curved, red tongues of the warning symbol emblazoned on the side. He ran his thumb over the word printed in bold below it: "BIOHAZARD". Gregor nearly quivered with anticipation, only a few hours away from obtaining the formula, and the canister would be the vehicle of his justice, his success, and unrequited love. It was almost too perfect. The man set his prize on the table and hurried through his morning routine, scrubbing himself to immaculate perfection and donning the suit he had laid out the day before. He had planned every aspect of this day and smiled in satisfaction. He placed the canister in his briefcase and locked it. Gregor had grabbed his wallet and keys and started out the door, hand on the light switch, when he paused. He glanced one last time at the 4"x6" framed photograph on the bookshelf. On the left side, an angelic smile and emerald eyes shone brilliantly against ivory skin. Crimson hair shimmered like strands of spun lava, even in low winter sunlight, belying the vibrancy of the woman's presence. His heart melted just looking at her. It seized with anger, however, as his eyes swept over the jagged white border of fractured glass to the image on the right side. Her partner. Even the word raised his ire. The man was leaning over, saying something to her as an aside. Something he did not intend for anyone to hear, no doubt. A secret. Gregor's mouth went dry and his breath hitched as he looked at the way the man had invaded her space, brushing against her as if he owned her. They were never aware that he was watching them, of course, but the territoriality was apparent all of the time. Well, if her partner could not take a hint, it was his own fault. Gregor stepped toward the bookshelf and stared at her for just a moment longer. He was surprised by the hot track of a tear sliding down his cheek as he reached out and touched his fingers longingly against the glass. His achievements and hard work would never be quite enough to get her attention. This time, though, he was going to make his move. There was no way she could ignore him now. Gregor turned and left the room, turning off the foyer light before locking the door. ****** Downtown Canal Indianapolis, Indiana The sun's rays painted broad strokes of pink and orange in apartment windows, slanting down ever so gradually, not quite touching the water. A breeze bent vivid green blades of new grass in stadium waves. Ducks floated idly in the narrow channel. Most of them were still asleep, heads tucked firmly under wings. Scully watched the aquatic birds with curiosity while finishing her breakfast. They were content to go wherever the water took them, secure in the knowledge that they would not wake up somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean if they slept too long. Scully sighed, wishing she had been able to sleep in, too. Scully took another bite of her organic high-fiber bagel, thinking as she chewed. In some ways, she pondered, she was like one of these sleeping ducks, only she followed Mulder. She was content to go wherever he took her. Well, almost. There was the time he talked her into accompanying him to the video store... She stopped herself from eating more of the bagel, and looked at it with one eyebrow raised, wondering what exactly it contained that had provoked her odd musings. Scully tore the rest of the bagel into small pieces and fed it to the group of mallards that had gathered before her. Scully was beginning to succumb to murky thoughts of setting Mulder's alarm clock to go off at 4 AM on Sunday in retribution for his rooster-like tendencies, but the scenery made her change her mind. With the steep grassy banks rising on either side of the water to muffle sound, she could almost forget that she was in the middle of a city. After a little deliberation, she decided that getting up at an obnoxious hour to accompany Mulder to the downtown canal for his morning run was not such a bad thing. At that moment, he emerged from under a bridge, running along the opposite bank. It was almost time to leave, so Scully stood and stretched before heading back toward the car. The persistent quacking of hungry mallards pursued her until she followed the inclined brick path away from the canal. She waited for her partner at the top of the bank as he crossed the bridge. His footfalls pounded across the synthetic boards in a steady rhythm. Scully gazed at a small boy and a frail- looking elderly man wearing a veteran's cap on the path below. The boy listened to the man's words with wide eyes and then reached out to press his hand against the engraved granite face of a large memorial stone. Below several columns of names, the inscription across the bottom read "U.S.S. Indianapolis". The scene appealed to Scully's sense of duty, the solemn pair reminding her of the reason why she was there. "All set." Mulder panted slightly, jogging in place and stretching his arms and torso. He laid his hand on her shoulder, which got her attention. She turned to him and pressed the remote unlock button on the rental car's keychain. The car beeped in reply. "I'm dying to get started," he said in a flat tone. Scully sighed at his droll humor. "Thanks for accompanying me, though, really. Had to run. I get restless lying still all day." She raised an eyebrow, wordlessly demanding an explanation of how playing a corpse in the staged disaster could possibly be more difficult than directing the body-recovery effort. He tried to hide a sheepish look by wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his tee-shirt. "You know, Scully, it's hard work!" His voice rose to mock-whine level. "People stepping on you all day, dragging you around, zipping you up in those bags..." He paused and frowned. "I think I do get bagged today." "Mulder," she shot him a disapproving look, "you're not supposed to discuss that." "Sorry. It's just really unnerving. Even with the ventilation material and interior zipper." He started toward the car, talking over his shoulder as she followed. "Not to mention stifling." "I suppose it does get pretty warm in there, but you shouldn't be in the bag more than a few minutes. If everything goes well, that is." She rolled her eyes, even though he wasn't looking. "Scully, the locals call us 'Hot Pockets'." He said the last two words with exaggerated distaste as he sat in the passenger's seat of the rental. "Hey, if the bag fits..." Mulder shut the car door, interrupting her bad analogy. Scully continued to stare in the direction of the memorial stone, lost in contemplation. "Let's go. I still have to change into my blood-soaked clothes," he called from the passenger's side. "By the way, Scully, I won't be at the hotel tonight. I signed up for an overnight emergency security breech scenario at the local CDC office. I'm going straight there from the drill this evening." She raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, really, Mulder? Since when did you start giving up quality sleeping time to hang out with a bunch of ge...Nevermind." "Ha ha. Anyway, I'll just head over to the site in the morning and catch some 'z's on the lawn," Mulder stated with what he hoped was just enough sincerity to convince her. He was not quite sure. "Okay," she said dubiously. She shook her head, clearing some meandering thoughts, and sat in the car beside Mulder. "Scully? Something wrong?" His voice was tinged with concern. "No." She paused, reviewing the day's plans in her mind. "Why?" "Oh, no reason. Just morbid curiosity." Scully did not have to look at Mulder to know that there was a smile on his face. She gave him a swat on the shoulder, started the car, and headed toward the drill site. ****** Federal Building Plaza Indianapolis, Indiana Grif Michelin surveyed the earnest chemical containment effort in progress with a mixture of restless boredom and anticipation. His briefcase sat atop a chest-high portable cabinet, its handle still gripped tightly in his left hand. The metal canister it contained was no longer empty, and that fact got his adrenaline pumping. The army's Chemical and Biological Rapid Response team representatives had just sent samples from the recovered remnants of the "weapon" to be analyzed. Preliminary in situ tests had indicated the presence of a strong acid, so all response personnel were now wrapped quite warmly in poly-vinyl Level B Hazmat suits. Everyone except for Michelin, who sweated bullets inside his Level A suit. He had many hours of experience with the restrictive protective gear and respirators, but the situation was making him claustrophobic. It would all be worth it, though, he mused and smiled to himself. Everything was going as planned. No one had questioned his choice of Hazmat suit, even though it was a bit overboard for the drill's circumstances. Certain perks came with being the representative of a major pharmaceutical company, and one of them was opting for the $5,000 model over the $1500 Level B. His neon orange suit was incredibly gaudy, but it was also a completely sealed, self-contained environment. No sense in taking chances, he had reasoned. A sudden movement against his waist startled him. He almost jumped before he realized that it was merely his pager. So, it was time. He checked the numerical message anyway, to confirm the order. The small digital display read "7734". Michelin said nothing, knowing that all voice transmission via the respirators' com links were being recorded. He pulled the briefcase off of the cabinet and quickly made his way around the perimeter of the small park, heading toward the "casualty" preparation area. A few volunteers and government officials were already getting organized for the day's events. Michelin spotted Mulder sitting in a makeup artist's chair. He was having the finishing touches put on his blood red corn syrup and glycerine-painted face and body. It would be the perfect cover, Michelin mused. He wished he had thought of that little detail himself. In less than a minute, Mulder was nearly unrecognizable. He vacated the chair for the next casualty in line and headed toward the large cold drinking water dispenser. Michelin took three deep breaths and walked back to the other side of the small park. He squeezed into the narrow gap between a mobile generator unit and the satellite server van. Louie's familiar face was visible at the other end of the van. They met in the middle of the hidden space. Michelin handed him the briefcase without a word. His elbow bumped against a bright yellow cord that ran from the van into the bundle of cords supplying the command tent. Nothing seemed to happen, though, so he turned and strode back to one of the tent's computer stations, logged himself out for the rest of the day, and hurried to his car. It took all of his self-control to repress the urge to peel his tires in the parking lot. ****** Louie shifted nervously inside the stifling layers of his business suit. He felt too conspicuous carrying Michelin's briefcase in the middle of a growing throng of federal agents. It was far too late to back out, though. He traced Michelin's path across the park to find Mulder and his other scheduled contacts. Mulder proved difficult to recognize. Louie nearly bumped into him before he figured out which man covered in fake blood was his target. Louie put a little distance between them, trying not to hurry too much. He leaned against the building, avoiding the West end of the makeup area, where dozens of teeming Boy Scouts chattered incessantly. Louie was becoming irritated with the delay when he spotted the other contacts. The two stout men with their own distorting makeup approached Mulder. The tall one sporting a goatee shook his hand before conversing with the agent in a low voice. Louie heard a few words here and there. It was enough to discern that they were asking for Mulder's help moving a large box of catering food to the drill site. He acquiesced. The men continued to talk and gently guided Mulder between two sandstone buildings, careful to maintain congenial body language. Louie was impressed by their effective efforts. The men led the apparently unsuspecting agent into a partially obscured loading dock alley while Louie stayed behind. Mulder was preoccupied with helping the first man lift a large, heavy cardboard box while the other pulled the security gate shut and locked it. He paused to nod at Louie before turning his attention back to Mulder. The two men at the dock struggled under their heavy burden. Mulder staggered for a moment and nearly dropped his end of the load before regaining balance. He struggled to keep his momentum, walking backwards while the shorter man urged him to keep moving. Mulder did not hear the goateed man approach. He could not see the leather sap that appeared from under a loose-fitting jacket, and he never anticipated the devastating blow to the base of his neck that sent him careening to the pavement. ****** "Did anyone ever call Colonel O'Neill?" "Where are my field reports? I need them on my desk in five minutes!" "SBCCOM is having trouble with the satellite feed. Get one of the NG techs out there to see what's wrong." Scully rubbed the bridge of her nose with one hand and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the cacophony of increasingly frantic voices around her. She had expected to supervise the body recovery team again, but the unexpected addition of a possible chemical weapon to the scenario set a different procedure into action. About halfway through the morning, only the Army's chemical response team and the ever-present "casualties" were allowed in the restricted zone. Scully had found herself "facilitating communications between the command authorities and local officials", which meant that she had the honor of informing the Indianapolis mayor's office, the county coroner, and local hospitals that she was not sure exactly how much longer the drill was going to take. She could feel a migraine looming on the horizon. "Ma'am? Ma'am?" Scully pried her eyes open. A CDC employee was looking at her with a concerned expression. "Are you okay?" the woman asked. "You look like you're having a tough time. Need some help?" Scully tried to give her a reassuring smile. "No, but thanks, Nickie. I think I just need to get out of this room for a few minutes. I'll be back in a bit." Scully checked to make sure she had her pager in her jacket pocket before heading for the outdoor break area. Once she was close to the "Caution" tape, she reflexively scanned the restricted zone. She observed a fairly orderly scene of chemical containment teams picking their way through the "dead" to evaluate the area. Scully scanned the ground, but she could not identify Mulder among the scattered "bodies". She sighed, wondering what he was really planning for that night. She hated to be untrusting, but she could not shake the feeling that he was up to no good. However she might try, she could not convince herself that he was merely trying to make himself more helpful for the drill supervisors. With that thought nagging at her mind, she reluctantly turned and went back to work inside the command tent. ****** Mulder winced as he drifted towards consciousness. His head throbbed mercilessly, obscuring all other sensations for some time. After many deep, slow breaths, he decided to open his eyes. A bright light became distinguishable between the slits of his eyelids, causing another colorful cascade of pain. His calming breaths turned to rapid panting when he realized that he was inside some sort of self-enclosed capsule. Strange faces obscured by Hazmat hoods and masks peered in at him through the transparent lid. Mulder tried to shove against it, but his movement was halted by restraints. His entire body twisted and contorted in an effort to pull free, but he was held fast. His heart sped, sending throbbing bolts of agony through his skull. He searched the faces above him for answers, but they offered none. One of the men waved at him. Very odd, Mulder thought, until he realized that it was not meant as a greeting. It was a good-bye. A hissing sound accompanied an invisible jet of moist air directed toward his face. It grazed his skin for about 15 seconds before terminating. The mist was soon followed by a jab in the back of Mulder's neck. The man who had waved leaned closer. Mulder recognized the familiar face of Grif Michelin leering at him from the other side of the lid. He slipped into darkness before he had time to process what was happening. ***ACT THREE*** Scully and Mulder stood silently in the middle of the empty park. A deep sound grew, rising from the unfamiliar buildings around them. Scully saw the source of the noise, now very loud. A great throng of people were gathering in the park. Many of them were adorned in ghastly costumes. Scully felt like she was in a bad zombie movie. She reached out to Mulder, just to make sure he was still there. Soon, she was surrounded by the crowd, pushing, wanting, demanding her attention. Mulder was next to her, now holding her hand. The people pressed closer until she could no longer move. When she turned to Mulder, he was gone, and she was left alone, a large, empty bag now clutched in her hand. A loud buzzing rang in Scully's ears, causing her to jump. She opened her eyes to darkness, her breath quickened and her heart racing. Her hands searched cautiously for the source of the incessant noise. Finally, she felt the smooth, flat surface with raised buttons. Her fingers were numb and stiff. She couldn't tell which button was "Alarm Off", so she just smashed them all. The buzzing in the room stopped, but the buzzing in her head continued mercilessly. Her hand found the switch on her bedside lamp and turned it. The light assaulted her eyes. She groaned, her head swimming with pain and disorientation. She eyed the bottle of Imitrex on her night stand with loathing. Not only had she fought her headache for hours before falling asleep, but she had been haunted by nightmarish visions throughout the night. Most of them had vanished into the recesses of sleep before she could commit them to memory, but the last one still bothered her. The more Scully thought about the dream, the more apprehensive she became. It didn't take an Oxford psychology degree to translate that message. She rolled her eyes once for good measure and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her clock read 5:30 AM. It was too early to go to the site, but she decided to get ready, anyway. She even entertained the idea of going to the canal while she padded off to the hotel room's kitchenette in search of a glass of soy milk. Scully passed the television on the way and decided that it would be a good idea to see the weather report. Sleep still blurred her vision, so she fumbled in her first attempt to turn it on. It glowed to life on the second try, though. Scully wandered to the refrigerator, stretching her arms and yawning before pulling the door open. As she was grabbing the carton, she heard the drill being mentioned on a news report. That got her attention, and she turned to watch. It was a live ground shot. The cameras were there too early to capture much of the activity, but there were already scenario design techs inspecting the site and preparing it for the day. After searching the few faces the camera's view for Mulder, she began to pay more attention to the reporter's voiceover. <...rumors circulating regarding the reason for the location of this operation. When confronted with these theories, a major pharmaceutical representative refused to go on camera, but he released this statement...> The screen switched to a text page graphic. Highlighted contents were read aloud by the same reporter. <"There have been no specific threats made to the City of Indianapolis. However, it is large enough to be a possible target and must therefore remain alert and ready to respond in the event of a threat to the safety of its citizens. We don't want to take any chances." The mayor has gone on record in support of the selection of Indianapolis, saying that he welcomes the preparedness drill and that safety is his top priority. However, with the world's largest sporting arena next door, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, with a capacity of over 250,000 people, there is speculation that there is more to the city's selection than we're being told...> The visual switched back to the site as the reporter continued, with a small inset in the upper right-hand corner. Scully read the caption "Griffith Michelin, Rousch Pharmaceuticals Spokesman", and her heart immediately sank. Mulder. She was stunned for a moment. Her eyes flickered back and forth, focused on nothing, as she surmised exactly what was happening. Hot blood rushed to her face. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She was being ditched. It all made perfect sense. She had known that Mulder's sudden volunteerism was highly unusual, but she had never imagined that he would intentionally mislead her in order to pursue Michelin. She pursed her lips, infuriated that he would do this to her. Not only was it condescending of him to assume that she wouldn't have backed him up, but worst of all, he had lied to her. She shook from head to toe, temporarily stifling her anger. There was important work to be completed, and unlike her partner, she was actually going to make sure that it got done. ****** Their arrival at the park was right on schedule. To Louie's knowledge, no one knew Mulder had even been missing. Louie pulled the van to a stop just out of the sight of the day's activities. His pal Carlos was awake and alert, training a gun at Mulder's head when Louie opened the doors to the van. "What do you think you're doing?" "I told you, I was making sure he didn't go anywhere." Carlos crouched down and jumped out of the van. Laying Mulder on top of a body bag, they proceeded to pull him to the nearest corner of the grassy area, where most of the "dead victims" were being staged. Once they were certain no one had spotted them, they returned to the van with the bag. Louie waited until Carlos was back in the driver's seat before reaching into his inner jacket pocket. Louie's lopsided grin made Carlos squirm uneasily in the seat. Louie slowly pulled his hand from his jacket, revealing a large envelope stuffed with money. He handed the cash to Carlos through the lowered widow. Louie just could not follow Michelin's orders. Good no- questions-asked lackeys were getting hard to find. "Well done, man. Now scram...and don't let the boss see you around these here parts again. Comprehendo?" The gleam in Carlos' eye was apparent as he mentally counted the wad of cash Louie had passed in his direction. "Yeah, nice doing buz'ness with ya." Louie sighed in relief as Carlos got into the van and drove out of the park. ****** Two hours into the day, Scully was already exhausted. The combination of stress and lack of sleep was brutal. The order that all field agents wear their Hazmats only compounded matters. While everyone else had donned their "prophylactics" with jocularity, she had been glad that her respirator might hide the scowl on her face. Mulder's deception consumed her thoughts, and when she went hunting for him at her first opportunity. She felt a predatory glide in her step. Other people must have noticed it, too, because the crowd of workers seemed to part before her. She searched the park, finally spotting Mulder's long gray training shoes in one corner of the grassy area. A small spark of relief lit at the sight of him, but she made quick work of it. This time, she deserved to be angry. Mulder lay on his back, limbs sprawled out, face turned to one side. He looked all too comfortable soaking up the sun, Scully noted. The makeup artist had gone a bit overboard with the fake blood, but she could still see the carefree, relaxed expression on his face. "Mulder, I saw the news today. Is there something you'd like to tell me?" She made no effort to disguise the edge in her tone, although the suit's microphone and speaker made her sound like she was inside a tin can. She waited expectantly. Mulder did not move or reply. "Fine. You stay in character now, but if you don't tell me what the Hell you were up to last night by the time today's exercise is over, you are dead meat." Still no reply. She shook her head, suppressing the urge to scream at his silence, and quickly walked away from him. Scully pondered the possible motives for his lie as she crossed the park again, but none made the act hurt any less. She was again thankful for the respirator. It concealed the handful of angry tears that fell from her eyes. ****** (Two hours later) The tailgate slammed shut on the back of the Coroner's van for another trip to the Marion county morgue. Scully sighed. Only one more load to go. Her team had documented and organized all of the fatalities. They had sent 58 "casualties" off for staged autopsies. Although her job was nearly complete, Scully approached it with reluctance. Mulder was still lying in the exact same place, awaiting his turn with the rest of the last group. Scully considered herself to be a very professional person. She was difficult to fluster. Everyone knew that, even her, but the insult of Mulder's deceptive game was a constant presence in her mind. It grew out of control, feeding itself, dominating her mind as she tried to work, and the more she thought about it, the angrier she got. While the rest of her team attended to an elderly woman and a large man nearby, Scully dragged a body bag next to Mulder. She avoided looking at him, trying to just do her job and block out her emotions, but she could not. She stared at him and demanded in a lowered voice, "Exactly how long are you going to play this out, Mulder? What was so important that you had to make up a story? I checked with the personnel director. You did not sign in for any scenario work last night. If you're going to ditch me, fine, but you could at least give me the dignity of not lying to me about it beforehand!" Her tone had started out calm, but she was talking adamantly by the time she finished. She could feel her face blush with fury. Scully waited for Mulder to say something, but he did not even acknowledge her presence. She noted with contempt that he did not move at all. In fact, he was in the exact same position she saw him in earlier. "Asleep on the job. Figures." She started to unzip the bag in preparation for Mulder's transport when a peculiar feeling gave her pause. Something about Mulder's breathing was not quite right. It sounded like he was congested. Scully was not sure if the sound was due to her suit's communication system, but it made her take a closer look. That was when she noticed that a trickle of the thick red liquid covering his face was actually flowing. Upon closer examination, the patches of his skin that showed through were abnormally pale. Scully's mind raced as she realized that something was very, very wrong. She placed a gloved hand on his right shoulder and shook him, but he did not respond. She reached out and felt for Mulder's carotid through the thin plastic layers of her gloves. His pulse was slightly rapid and weak. Carefully, Scully eased one of his eyelids open. Only the whites of his eyes were visible. Suddenly, Mulder looked at her, his gaze unfocused, and tried to pull away. Before Scully could react, Mulder's body was wracked with a violent cough, and a few small droplets of blood sprayed on her sleeve, contrasting sharply with the bright yellow material. Scully was stunned for a minute, unsure of exactly what was happening. The only thing she could think of was that her partner needed help immediately. She stood up and turned toward the crowd behind her. "We need the paramedics over here. Now!" Turning her attention back to Mulder, she found him nearly bouncing off of the ground with his coughing. His eyes wandered aimlessly; his mouth hung open. Scully knelt beside Mulder, at a loss to help him. She couldn't tell how much of the red blood covering his body was real. Scully tugged at his shirt until his abdomen and chest were exposed. His torso was soaked with beads of sweat and stripes of red fluid. To Scully's relief, it appeared to be flaking off in places, but it was not rust-colored. It was the drying remnant of the fake blood. However, when Scully tried to palpate Mulder's ribs, she felt feverish heat radiating from his skin, even through the plies of her suit. The ribs seemed intact, but something was still hampering his breathing. His chest heaved under her touch as he struggled for air. Mulder's head turned slightly. He looked at her with fear in his eyes and moved his mouth. She knew he was trying to say something. His eyes grew wide, and he shot out a hand, grabbing the sleeve of her suit with an iron grip. A wave of pain passed visibly through his body, and when the trembling subsided, his eyes drifted shut again. The hand on her arm went limp and fell to the grass. Scully felt cold, uncertain of what her partner was going through. Paramedics still adorned in yellow Hazmat gear arrived, immediately pulling her away from Mulder. She tried to push her way back, but other people got in her way. They were the Indiana State Police officers from her team. "I need to get to him! He's seriously ill." "Let the paramedics do their jobs, Agent Scully. Just come over here with us..." "No!" She had to get to him. Had to. "I'm his doctor, and I'm going to stay with him!" Still, they would not let her through. She shoved one of the men out of the way and moved to her left so she could at least get a better view. The medics checked Mulder's vitals while the police moved everyone back. The drill started to fall apart as people dropped their scenario roles to watch. Their chatter was restrained to a quiet buzz of speculation. Various media representatives tried to move close enough to get Mulder on camera, but the crowd would not allow it. Scully realized that she was holding her breath waiting for the ambulance to pull up. It rolled onto the grass and stopped directly beside Mulder. Scully noted that he was stirring again. One of the medics was trying to simultaneously ventilate him with an Ambu bag and hold him still while a gurney was brought to his side and lowered. Just as two men began to lift Mulder onto the flat mattress, he jerked to a sitting position. The men set him back down at his movement. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he tore the mask from his face. The crowd of onlookers fell silent. Mulder's stomach rippled and his arms quaked as he wrapped them protectively around himself. He tried to cough, but he only produced a wet crackling sound. Scully could not stand to watch from the sidelines any longer. Just as she drew close enough to touch him, one of the paramedics turned and stopped her with a firm hand wrapped around her upper arm. "Let me go. He needs me." Scully was not even looking at the medic as she spoke to him. She was noticing the sweat collected on Mulder's brow, the way he rocked slowly back and forth, his grimace of pain that was gradually worsening... The coughing started again. This time, it was the paramedic on his left who was doused in bloody droplets. The attack did not stop there, though. The entire plaza seemed to still as Mulder's strangled hacking began to produce red foam. Scully added his symptoms together: fever, nausea, difficulty breathing, abdominal pain, bloody sputum... There was a silent pause before one of the medics shook his head and recognized what had to be done. "Quarantine protocol! No one enters or leaves this plaza!" The orders were relayed to the guards surrounding the park. National Guard and police began repositioning barriers and enforcing the perimeter. Scully moved closer to Mulder in spite of her shock. She kneeled and supported his neck. One paramedic helped her ease him back to the ground while another continued to ventilate him. Scully heard bullhorns directing the drill participants to stay calm and follow supervisors' orders. She knew SBCCOM would prepare for the worst and initiate a multi- casualty incident response plan. The problem would be convincing everyone involved that it was not part of the drill. Scully began to feel an unfamiliar feeling creep up inside her. Fear. This was not a drill, and Mulder's illness was terrifyingly real. Scully's partner was at least semi- conscious. She could see a subtle grimace underneath the clear plastic ventilator mask. He opened his eyes for a second, rolled them wildly, and took two deep breaths. His eyelids fluttered shut again, and he began unconsciously gasping for air. The third paramedic immediately joined them and grabbed his ankles. "One, two, three." They efficiently lifted him onto the gurney, strapped him down, and loaded him into the ambulance. Two medics climbed in with the gurney. The driver took his place at the front before Scully realized he had moved. The doors banged shut. Scully did not even have time to demand to ride with Mulder before the ambulance left her standing in a cloud of dust and confusion. ***ACT FOUR*** Scully swallowed a mouthful of water, downing a large tablet in the process. She threw the empty plastic cup into a recycling bin and immediately headed for the door. It had taken her over an hour to dispose of her contaminated Hazmat suit, get her prophylactic dose of Ciprofloxacin, give her official statement as a witness, and convince the on-site medical director to allow her to visit Mulder at the hospital. A National Guard staff sergeant drove her to the University Hospital in a Humvee. Any other day, she would have been amused by the way the traffic parted like the Red Sea. However, the lack of information regarding Mulder's condition dominated her thoughts. Five minutes and 26 possible diagnoses later, she was at the Emergency Room door. Scully approached the receptionist's desk, noting that the ER did not seem to be especially active. "I need to know the location of a patient." She briefly displayed her badge. "Fox Mulder. He was brought in about an hour ago. A containment case." The receptionist rattled the keys on her computer and nodded. "Mr. Mulder is in Level Three Isolation..." "I need to get to him," Scully stated. She was not emotional. It was just a fact. "Someone already called ahead for you." The receptionist leaned down and reached into her desk. She produced a security pass, security mask, and neoprene gloves. She handed them to Scully, her features conveying a touch of fear. Scully thanked the receptionist, clipping the pass onto her jacket and turning off her cell phone while reading the hall signs. Scully immediately found the Isolation listing and hurried down the hall, her high heels striking a war beat on the linoleum floor. She maneuvered among three dozen visitors, patients, and slow-moving students before she found the "Isolation Ward" sign. She pulled the gloves on and slung the mask strings around her head. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she made her way to the isolation rooms. National Guardsmen stood on either side of an entrance marked "Restricted" and bustling with nurses and technicians. "Bingo," Scully whispered. One of the guards approached her immediately, checked her pass and badge, and instructed her to gear up with the rest of the required protective wear inside the anteroom. She pushed the large gray swivel door open and grabbed a face shield, Tyvek apron, and a pair of shoe covers, knowing that precautionary procedures were being followed. After donning all of the required PPEs, Scully peered through the small windows into Mulder's room. The staff was still setting up Mulder's room. Scully used every bit of self- restraint she had to avoid rushing in there. She did not want to be in the way, so she stood outside and watched like a hawk, seeing only the backs of several sets of scrubs through a small anteroom. After about ten minutes, the staff dispersed to other tasks, discarding their contaminated gear in the anteroom's large biological hazard bins, and Scully wasted no time in taking her place beside Mulder. The negative-pressure room sucked at her hair when she opened the door and hurried to his side. She studied him quietly, processing the scant clues that lay before her regarding his illness. He was still under the influence of an anesthetic, unaware of the ventilator inflating his congested lungs. Scully looked at his chart with trepidation. He was listed in guarded condition with an aggressive unidentified respiratory tract infection, slight dehydration, and a mild concussion. She winced in sympathy. He was going to be in for a painful awakening. Scully hung the chart back on its hook and went to stand beside Mulder. She wanted to hold him, but she was almost afraid to touch him, even with her protective gear. He looked pale and sunken. The beds of his nails carried a cyan tinge, and he was strapped to the bed to prevent him from removing the vent. Scully felt a sadly familiar emptiness inside, wondering how many more times she would stand by his bedside anxiously awaiting a prognosis from yet another ER doctor before she heard the one she most feared. Her hand hovered over his cheek, but she did not touch him. Her eyes welled up, but the tears did not fall. Scully gazed at his twitching eyelids and listened to his forced breaths until muffled footsteps alerted her to the presence of another person in the room. She turned to see a physician making his way toward the foot of the bed. He began furiously scribbling on Mulder's chart before he acknowledged her. "Sorry for the rush, but I'm sure you understand. I'm Jack Lange," he introduced himself, dispensing of the "Doctor" title. A nod was offered in place of a handshake. "We are double- and triple-checking our preliminary findings, but everything we've seen so far is pointing Yersinia pestis." He scrawled a signature on the chart and set it down, meeting Scully's stunned gaze. She had to concentrate to follow the doctor's words. One word was drowning out everything else in her mind. Plague. "Are you absolutely sure?" Scully asked in disbelief. "Well, it will take approximately 72 hours to receive a confirmation. We've notified the State Department of Health, and sputum samples are already on their way to the CDC and USAMRIID. Of course, we couldn't wait that long to begin treatment. I've consulted with many colleagues on this most unusual case. The presentation of hemoptysis and cyanosis were our first clues, in correlation with the presence of Gram-negative, bipolar staining bacilli in his bronchial smears. Adding to that the results of his chest films," Lange said as he pulled an x-ray film from the chart, "we are convinced that we're dealing with pneumonic plague." He slid the film into a view panel and turned on the backlight. Scully was astounded at what she saw. The area spanning the ribs, which should have only hinted at the edges of soft organs, was dominated by two large white masses with diffuse borders. They filled the bottom two-thirds of Mulder's lungs, showing the exact positions of the beset lobar organs. "According to various statements, including yours, he seemed to be in perfectly good health yesterday. This sort of fulminant consolidation of the lungs is highly indicative of a pneumonic plague infection. Of course, this diagnosis has very serious implications. We are administering streptomycin right now and working on cultures for further tests." "The good news is that Mister Mulder's temperature has stabilized, and his concussion seems to be minor. As for the bad news... Frankly, right now, it's a battle to keep him from drowning. He's producing pulmonary drainage as fast as we can clear it. His kidneys are also cause for concern. He was already a bit dehydrated, which is not an uncommon early symptom of pneumonic plague. With the nephrotoxic propensity of the antibiotics, he's in quite a predicament. The effectiveness of his treatment should be apparent in the next 24 hours." The doctor cast a worried glance at his patient before looking back at Scully. "We're already in contact with the CDC and WHO, comparing his symptoms and lab values with known manifestations of natural and manipulated strains. So far, no one else from the project site has been reported to have symptoms. It's very puzzling." "To say the least..." Scully noted while trying to cope with the frightening turns her day had taken. "Thank you. Please let me know as soon as any further details are known," Scully said. "I believe you already have my cell number..." "Yes. If you'll excuse me, I have more work to do." Scully watched as Lange exited the room. She did not envy him. He was young, probably relatively inexperienced, and he had suddenly been thrust into the middle of a situation that could have global implications. Scully felt reassured that he was competent, though. It was a small comfort, but she would take what she could get. Scully studied Mulder's slack features for a few more precious seconds before heading to the anteroom to discard her protective gear. She had some phone calls to make. ****** The shouts of the reporters storming the Capitol Building steps could be heard for blocks. "Excuse me, Mr. Michelin. We'd like to ask a few questions." Several reporters shoved microphones in his face as he descended the steps. The cacophony of voices blended together to one as each person shouted out various questions. "No comment," Michelin stated, as he pushed his way through the mob of reporters around him. "Sir, the public needs answers. They are very concerned by this latest news regarding what was supposed to be a terrorism drill. Is that all it was?" "Mr. Michelin, can you tell us about the rumors of a toxin that was found at the drill site? How it will affect those who were participating in the exercise? What about long-term effects to those people in the surrounding area?" "I said *no* comment!" The mob was disappointed and dissipated as soon as Michelin's car pulled away from the curb. The drive to his gated estate was relatively peaceful. He made it in just a few short minutes; however, his peace was short-lived when he found television crews from CNN, FOX, NBC and CBS standing at his gate. The gates swung open and his car pulled into the long drive and pulled up in front of the house. Entering the foyer, he dropped his briefcase and keys down on the table and yanked at the tie around his neck. Deciding a much needed drink was in order, he poured himself a glass of scotch on the rocks, a habit he had picked up from his new collaborator. The phone began its shrill, incessant ring, and, growing tired of the sound, Michelin picked it up. "Hello," he snapped, irritably. "Mr. Michelin, this is Anita Drabee, a reporter from CNN. We'd like to ask you some questions. Can you tell us if..." "Go the hell away and leave me alone!" He slammed the phone back down into its cradle and threw back a long swig of the scotch, draining his glass. Michelin was concerned with how quickly rumors of the toxin had spread so quickly. He knew this was only the beginning, and hoped he could withstand the pressure of the upcoming insight committee talks at the Capitol Building. ****** The doctor had left hours ago. The soft hum of monitors could be heard through the darkened room. Scully sat in the bedside chair and held Mulder's limp hand in her own, absently stroking his knuckles. Resting her head back against the soft vinyl leather of the chair, she could feel her anger rising with each whoosh of the ventilator that allowed Mulder to cling fiercely to life. Scully gradually became oblivious to the coming and going of the respiratory therapists and nurses caring for Mulder. After being on a high adrenaline rush most of the day, the sleep that had eluded Scully the night before finally claimed her. She awoke at around 7:00 the next morning to the sound of the food carts being rolled down the hall. She stood, stretching the stiffness from her body and looked down at her still unconscious partner. Remembering her revelation from the night before, she decided that a visit to Rousch Pharmaceuticals was in order. Scully knew that Michelin would have either direct or indirect access to highly restricted microbial organisms, and she wanted to know if anything suspicious had occurred at Rousch recently. Immediately, a sense of dread poured over her, and she decided to confront Michelin. She stared down at Mulder again and knew she needed to call for reinforcements. Lifting the room's phone handset, she punched in the number and the call was answered promptly on the second ring. Her gloved hand crackled across the connection. "It's me, Frohike. Turn off the tape recorder." After a moment of rustling, a voice rang out. "What can we do for you, Scully?" She proceeded to explain the recent goings on with Mulder to Frohike. "I need you guys to fly out to Indiana and sit with Mulder. I realize that this request is a bit unusual, but I don't want him to be left alone for a moment. I have some digging to do. Can you all get out here for a few days? It shouldn't take me long." "Sure, we'll call you with all the flight details, try to hop the next flight out, and meet you at the airport. And, Scully, don't worry. Mulder's a fighter. He'll make it through this." Frohike's voice pause for an uncomfortable few seconds. "He knows you love him too much to give up on him." "Thanks, Frohike, I...yeah. I'll see you soon." Scully replaced the receiver in the cradle and turned back to Mulder, whispering, "I promise, I'm going to find out what caused this and find a way to get you well. I have to." The silent tears, which she had held in check last night, pooled in the bottom of her lids before splashing down on her cheeks like a waterfall. Grasping his fingers, she laid her hooded head against his hand and fell asleep again, knowing how crucial the need for rest was right now. She needed to be able to concentrate fully. Scully had a determined purpose ahead. ****** The phone woke Scully a couple of hours later, and, as promised, Frohike called with their flight itinerary. They were due to arrive at 6 PM and would stay with Mulder as long as Scully needed them there. Unable to go back to sleep, she aimlessly paced about Mulder's hospital room for the next 20 minutes. Dr. Lange entered the room and was surprised to find that Scully had spent the night in the chair by her partner's side. "How's he doing this morning?" He asked Scully rhetorically as he placed the stethoscope against Mulder's chest, listening for any wheezes and crackles in his breathing. "He seems to be doing a little better. The nurses here are excellent and have cared for him wonderfully." She sighed and stared out the window as Dr. Lange continued his examination. He raised his eyebrows as he straightened up and faced her. "Well, the congestion does not seem to have spread. Immunohistochemistry gave me the results of his blood smears this morning. They do indicate the presence of bacterial toxin in his blood, although the level of toxemia is not as pronounced as one might expect, given the aggressiveness of this strain. Hopefully, this pathogen won't throw us any more surprises." Scully nodded in somber agreement. "Dr. Lange, I have some errands to run later tonight, in case you would stop by to check on my partner again. However, I have some...colleagues who are coming to sit with him. I have reason to believe this infection might have been a deliberate act against my partner. I have to check out all of the possibilities." Scully smoothed down a small stubborn strand of hair across Mulder's forehead which refused to lie against his forehead. In spite of her request concerning Mulder's progress to Dr. Lange, it was as if she and Mulder were the only two people in the room. "I'll make sure that Mister Mulder's visitors are directed through the process of getting the proper security passes," Lange replied. "I would be happy to do that. For the record, I'm very sorry about what has happened to your partner. We are going to do everything we can to help him. You just hang in there. He needs you." Scully stared at Dr. Lange in surprise, and a tiny grin escaped from his lips. "Yes, Agent Scully. It's very obvious how much you care about your partner. I hope you find out who did this, for his sake and everyone's." After an awkward moment of silence between them, he spoke again. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have some more patients to see this afternoon. I hope I'll see you again soon." With that, the door shut behind him and she was alone again. A few hours later, her stomach started growling and, she realized that she had not eaten since yesterday morning. She looked sadly down at Mulder. "I can't leave this room. There's no one to sit with you." She was starting to feel irrationally guilty for being so famished. Almost immediately, the door opened and there stood Frohike, Langley and Byers, all dressed in protective equipment. Scully had to fight to suppress laughter at Frohike's rumpled, oversized suit. "The cavalry has arrived." They each took a spot around the bed to check out Mulder's injuries for themselves. "How's he doing?" Byers inquired. "Or maybe the question I should be asking is how are *you* doing? You look like you haven't slept in days, Dana. When was the last time you had anything to eat?" "I'm fine...I just need...I need to go do some digging now. There is still time to get where I need to go before it closes for the day." "Anything we can help with, Scully? Langley here brought the old laptop to keep himself busy with Dungeons and Dragons." Frohike flexed his fingers and rolled his eyes at Langley. "Right now, no, but if I come up with anything on this little visit I'm about to make, you guys will be the first people I call." She gathered her purse and kissed Mulder through her mask on the forehead. "I'll be back soon. I promise. I love you." She nodded at the Gunmen and stepped into the small prep room to shed her extra protective layer of clothing. When she was finished, she walked just around the corner, leaned back against the wall, and sighed. Scully regained her composure and took long purposeful strides toward the front entrance of the hospital. She was a woman on a mission, and for Mulder's sake, she had no choice but to pursue it. ******* Federal Building Plaza Indianapolis, Indiana The warm breeze drifted through the open windows of the stale office. Sifting through the piles of paperwork concerning the recent "incident" that littered his desk, Michelin sighed in disgust as he heard a knock at the door. "This had better be good," he mumbled under his breath. He opened the door and turned away before noticing who stood before him. "If you are a reporter, you can just go away. I have nothing to say to you people." "No, I'm definitely not a reporter, but you might be even less thrilled to see me," Scully said in a calm rage. Michelin froze at the sound of her voice. "What's the matter, Michelin? Afraid to turn around and face me? Have you done something you shouldn't have...again?" "Ah, what a pleasure to see you again, *Agent* Scully." He walked back to his desk, sat in his chair, and turned to face her, his eyes straight ahead. His emphasis on her title did not go unnoticed and even proved to further infuriate her. "So to what do I owe this visit?" he asked with a forced smile. "Come on, Michelin, don't play the idiot with me. As a liaison officer of Rousch Pharmaceuticals, I know you are most certainly aware of what occurred yesterday, and as a result, Agent Mulder is currently in the hospital. I want some damn answers, and I want them *now*!" Scully said, first pounding her fist on Michelin's desk for emphasis and then scattering his papers onto the floor with a sweep of her hand. Her face grew red as she continued to breathe heavily across his desk. The door to Michelin's office opened and his secretary stood in the doorway, obviously frightened by the outburst. "Sir, do I need to call security?" Michelin answered her without looking in her direction, never taking his eyes from Scully's. "No, Marlene. That won't be necessary. Agent Scully is just looking in the wrong place for some information. I've got everything under control. You can go back to work." As soon as the door closed, Michelin arose from his chair and walked around to the front of his desk, standing in front of Scully. "Agent Scully, if I have happen across any answers to yesterday's dreadful occurrence, I promise, you will be notified. I'm truly sorry to hear about Mulder. He was a good man. I trust you can show yourself out?" With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her and again walked behind his desk and began signing papers. Speechless and shocked at Michelin's blatant brush-off, Scully traced her previous steps back to the door and seethed all the way to the parking lot, where her rental car waited for her. Suddenly, she remembered Michelin's last words. He had used past tense when referring to Mulder. He obviously thought Mulder was already dead. She pondered for a short while what he could have possibly meant by that comment before pulling out onto the highway and heading toward the hospital. However, no matter what he had meant, Scully was absolutely certain that Michelin had a hand in Mulder's illness. She also knew that, if anything happened to Mulder, she would see Michelin pay. ****** Rousch Pharmaceuticals, Inc. Indianapolis, Indiana Krycek paused and listened to the wind whistling through the parking garage. His narrowed gaze swept over the vast sea of automobiles and onto the exit door. He quickly crouched to the ground as he heard voices approaching. He watched two shadows as they continued to walk in the direction of their vehicles, both oblivious of his presence. Of course, it was the best possible time to see what Michelin was up to and to get the antidote...no one but the inept night guard was around. It couldn't be easier he mused. Krycek had made quick work of the guard at the main door. Easing the door open and stepping through, Krycek noticed a shaded light streaming from the office at the end of the hall. Must be the slime-ball working late, he thought to himself. Krycek crouched down and peered through the glass panels as he watched Michelin furiously typing away at his computer and slamming his fingers down on the keys in apparent anger. After ten more minutes of that treatment, Michelin stood, ripped his suit jacket from the chair, and shoved his arms into the sleeves before walking toward the door. Krycek scurried around the corner, watching as Michelin closed his office door and entered the waiting elevator. Once the elevator doors were safely closed, Krycek waited another five minutes to make sure Michelin was really gone. He stepped in front of Michelin's office door, poised to pick the lock, and twisted the handle only to find the door unlocked. Krycek walked around the corner of the desk and pulled a blind slat up, watching Michelin exit the parking garage in his automobile. After a fruitless search through the entire office, Krycek sat in the chair and sighed in disgust. Rubbing his hands over his face, he noticed a gleam beneath the front side of the desk. He moved hand under the shiny object. The tape ripped easily as he fingered the key with a slight smile. Krycek was staring thoughtfully at the key in his hand, wondering what lock it belonged to, when he noticed the safe in corner of the room. "Well, let's see here, Griffie. What have you been hiding from the unsuspecting public?" He turned the fit key in the slot, opening the safe door to reveal a stack of folded papers. Krycek unfolded them and began trying to decipher the scientific notations. One of the pages contained a list of virulence factors in one column, and addition/deletion indictors next to each. Another paper contained cost projections for mass-production of an experimental vaccine. As he shuffled through the small stack, the next page gave Krycek pause. It contained specifications of a genetically-engineered strain of Y. pestis. The data table was followed by a note indicating something about induced suppression of lipofusion abilities. Even though he was not a scientist, after a few short minutes, Krycek's mind reeled at the possibilities of the scope of this project. Krycek felt sick at the implication that Mulder's illness had been a product of greed. He wasn't one to begrudge anyone a creatively-gained profit, but Michelin had picked the wrong test subject. He again flipped through paper after paper explaining in detail the exact formula needed for this engineered biotoxin to be unleashed and the only antidote which would cure it. The location of the specimens was listed on the last page. Krycek wiped his prints from the safe door locked it. He also wiped his prints from the bottom of the desk. Looking around the room to make sure no stone had been left unturned, he pocketed the papers, and walked down the hallway to the other end. Just as the they had revealed, there was a large steel door with a number pad. Krycek shuffled through the pages until he came to the one with the correct code to the room. He took a latex glove from his leather jacket pocket and put it on his hand. He punched in the code, and all of the indicators lit up green. A small click could be heard, signaling that the secure room had been unlatched. Not bothering to suit up, Krycek felt the coldness of the refrigerated room seep through him as he went from one box to the next, until he came upon one in the back of the room labeled "7734". He unlatched the lid and inside, a glass tube with clear liquid lay on a bed of velvet cloth. He smiled as he pictured Michelin's face when he realized the antidote and the papers were gone. Krycek closed the box again, picked it up, and made his way out of the refrigerated room...only to find himself face to face with Michelin. ************ University Hospital Scully awoke to a rushing sound. After a few seconds, she figured out that it was not just her ears ringing. It was the respiratory therapist's suction tube clearing the excretions from Mulder's lungs. She groaned and sat up. Her arms were numb from leaning on the bedrail. Scully blinked slowly, watching the pink liquid snake its way into the small collection tank. Mulder was so pale, he looked as if his skin had never seen the sun. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and tiny flecks of blood dotted his upper lip and nostrils. She looked down at Mulder's hand. His fingertips still carried a bluish tinge. Certainly not a promising sign, she thought. A nurse entered the room, taking Mulder's vitals and drawing a blood sample while the RT packed up his equipment. "Excuse me. What is the latest on his condition?" Scully inquired of the nurse. "The levels of LPS in his blood have steadily increased in the last few hours, and his fever has risen to 102.8, as the antibiotics have started to work. We are monitoring closely." "Thank you," Scully said quietly. She knew that Mulder was going the wrong direction. The very drugs that were killing the bacteria in his lungs were also causing them to release even more of their toxic cell wall components into his system. If he didn't start filtering the deadly lipopolysaccharide out of his blood soon, he would go into septic shock. Scully felt herself go numb. It was a very real possibility that she was not ready to handle. As she watched, Mulder's eyelids fluttered briefly and his lips tightened around the vent. The actions were barely discernible, however. Scully had seen his face twitch or his fingers bend slightly from time to time, but so far, he was largely non-responsive. She did not like sitting idly by, watching Mulder's now ghostly form waste away. There had to be something could do to help him. She remembered a series of articles in one of the journals she had reviewed in preparation for the terrorism drill. It dealt with emerging vaccines and treatments for potential bioweapons. Perhaps one of those articles might provide some feasible solutions, not only for Mulder, but for everyone involved. Scully felt a surge of energy at the thought. She squeezed his hand and ran her gloved fingers through his hair. "I'll be right back, Mulder. I promise." Scully stood and hurried to the anteroom, shedding her protective gear in record time. She was fairly well-practiced by now. She went first to the lobby, where she knew that the Gunmen were waiting. Langley was the only one she found, though. He was running his laptop's defragmenter program when Scully approached him. "What happened to the rest of the crew, Langley?" "Oh, they're out trying to track down some food." He closed the laptop and looked up at her with a very serious expression. "How's Mulder?" Scully took a deep breath. "He's...still hanging in there. Look, I left something at the hotel that I think might be worthwhile to review. It shouldn't take long. Do you mind holding down the fort here?" "No problem." "Thank you. I'll be back shortly." Langley smiled at her briefly. Scully could not reciprocate. Instead, she patted him on the shoulder as she walked by and headed toward the parking garage. ****** "Going somewhere with that?" Michelin's glance at the locked antidote box did not go unnoticed by Krycek. A loaded gun was pointed at Krycek's face with the hammer cocked. "Why don't you just put that down on the ground, walk out of here calmly, and we'll act like nothing ever happened." Michelin stated. Placing the box on the ground away from his feet, Krycek slowly straightened up and surprised Michelin by throwing a blow to his midsection. The gun was knocked away in the skirmish as they wrestled with each other. Krycek was knocked off balance, but managed to recover and grab the gun just inches away from Michelin's hand. Standing on his feet, Krycek kept the gun trained on Michelin as he retrieved the antidote box. He began backing out of the room slowly, but Michelin bolted toward him. A loud vibrating bang shook the hall as Krycek pulled the trigger, hitting Michelin square between the eyes. Michelin's body slumped over and fell to the floor, writhing for only a few seconds before going limp. Krycek checked Michelin's pulse, assuring himself that the man was dead. He pulled Michelin's heavy limbs up over his shoulder and exited toward the parking garage stairway. He dragged his victim to a van that he'd planted the day before. Krycek hefted Michelin's body into the back of the vehicle and went back into the building. He found some bleach in the custodian's closet and cleaned up all evidence of the shooting, taking care not to miss anything. Picking up the antidote lock box, he walked toward the van and drove out of the parking garage, contemplating what his next actions would be. ****** Undisclosed location Krycek pulled the van off of the small county at an unmarked intersection, checking for onlookers before he followed a dirt path into a small wood. Gravel crunched under the tires as the van slowed to a stop, right in front of a small lake. An empty car was waiting there for him. Krycek got out of the van and placed the antidote inside the car. He then pulled a tank of acetone from the side panel door. Krycek had been pleased when he had thought of acetone in place of gasoline. It would dissolve in the water, should the van ever be found, though he didn't think that was likely. Krycek set about his task and poured the acetone in and on the van. He lit a match and tossed it inside the vehicle. He immediately ran for cover behind some heavy brush as high, hot flames erupted within milliseconds. After sitting for over an hour, Krycek grew tired of waiting. He was becoming fidgety when he observed an explosion. The flames had finally found the gasoline tank. The fire flared then slowly burned out. Donning a pair of heat-insulated gloves, he reached into the van, placed it in neutral gear, and braced against the gravel. When it had gained enough momentum, he backed away. The van rolled easily down the steep bank and into deep. Air bubbled up for several minutes. When they eventually stopped, Krycek's thoughts turned to repairing the damage Michelin had caused. ****** Holiday Inn Express Indianapolis, Indiana Krycek left Scully's room just in time, slinking around the corner of the entrance, awaiting her arrival. He smirked as he heard her mumbling about Michelin and how sorry he would be if she had anything to do with it. Scully slung her keys against the wall of her motel room in disgust. She had been contemplating her conversation with Michelin on the way to the hotel. The more she thought about it, the more suspicious his aggressive avoidance tactics seemed. "The gall of that man, brushing me off like that! Well, I am damned well going to get some answers, even if I have to bang heads all the way up to the president of the Rousch." She shut the door and paced angrily around the room, mulling over her next course of action. The shrill ring of the phone interrupted her. After Krycek was sure she was going to stay in the room, he slinked his way to the partially curtained window and stared at her every movement. Her voice was muffled but still audible. "Hello?" she huffed. "Hi, Frohike. Sorry about that. Yeah, I'm fine..." Krycek watched as she picked up a folder from the dresser. "So, what's the latest?" Scully inquired in a hushed tone. She kept her eyes cast downward. "Yes. I was afraid of that..." A pause. "They told me his fever was holding steady. Hematuria? Well, that means his kidneys are being damaged..." Her voice cracked before she could finish. "Yes. I'll be there as soon as I can. Should he happen to wake up, I want to be the first person he sees. Thanks, Frohike." The last two words were shaky. Scully hung up the phone and stood completely still for a minute. Krycek felt his heart pound at witnessing this rare moment of her vulnerability. He began to sweat, feeling uncomfortable and incredibly lucky at the same time. Scully sat on the bed slowly, her absent gaze focused on nothing. She looked down toward her shoes, her red-rimmed eyes pooling deep. An unusual shape caught her attention from the edge of her field of vision. A long, slender black object protruded from underneath her pillow. Intrigued, she leaned over to pick it up, noticing a bright yellow sticker that said "7734 ANTIDOTE" on the front. She went to her briefcase, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them on. Uncertain as to the contents of the container, Scully lifted it carefully onto the desk. She spotted an envelope taped to the lid. She suddenly felt uneasy, knowing that someone had broken into her room. Abandoning the box, she moved to the window and pulled the curtains back, staring out into the fading evening sunlight. Krycek ducked down as far as he could behind the bushes in front of the window so she would not see him. Shaking her head, Scully turned back toward the box and opened the envelope, which contained a key to the box in front of her. Slowly, she turned the lock and found a typed note lying on top of a clear liquid- filled vial which said, "For Mulder." She dropped the paper in surprise and picked up the syringe, staring at it in amazement. She only hoped she wasn't too late. She scrambled out the door, unknowingly striding past Krycek on her way to her rental car. He stayed hidden until her car was out of site. After witnessing the effects of Mulder's illness on Scully, Krycek was tempted to risk his own cover to dig further into Michelin's records. However, he could not afford to. Krycek stood motionless in the falling darkness. He knew that he had done all he could for the time being. The rest was now up to Mulder. ****** Rousch Pharmaceuticals, Inc. Hans Gregor shook his head in disbelief. Michelin was more conniving than he had given him credit for. Gregor surveyed the neat, organized, and notably empty room. It was suspicious when Michelin did not show up for his nightly meeting, but now the evidence of Michelin's backstabbing was right in front of him. The deserter. He was probably in Mexico by now. Gregor allowed himself a few minutes for self-pity. He had been a fool to trust Michelin, he thought. An absolute moron. Stacks of unfinished government and media inquiries sat atop the absent man's desk. Gregor had first checked on the engineered antidote for his own peace of mind, finding only an empty slot where the product of years of hard work and investment had been sitting only hours earlier. He heard that an FBI agent had visited Michelin earlier. Whatever she said must have been sufficient to scare him strait into hiding, Gregor mused, sitting in Michelin's vacant chair. He sighed, reminding himself that all was not lost. There was more of the antidote at the Kansas City lab. The project was not destroyed...it was merely delayed. It was an extremely costly delay, however. Gregor picked up Michelin's desk phone and punched in the number for the State Police. The sooner he reported the theft of valuable research material, the sooner he could transfer all of the blame to good old Griffith. ****** Scully rushed into Mulder's room breathlessly, her Tyvek apron rustling over her clothes. The Gunmen were sitting in three chairs on the far side of the bed, all propped up against the wall and fast asleep. Scully shook Byers' shoulder with a gloved hand. His startled jump awakened his comrades immediately. "Hey, guys. I have some good news! I've found what appears to be the antidote for Mulder's infection. They're running tests on it right now, to ensure safety, but it appears to be legitimate. The hospital has been given permission to administer it." "Good deal," Frohike said, his eyebrows raised. "The cure for the common plague," Langley intoned. "Excellent news." Byers smiled up at her. "But where exactly did it come from?" "That's the big mystery. Someone broke into my hotel room and left it there." Scully looked over at Mulder and back to Byers. "I brought back the article I told you about. It lists all of the labs currently doing research on Class A microbes. One of the labs, Rousch, was a participant in the drill." "Interesting," Byers stated. "The doctor came in here and told us that the strain in Mulder's system matched a previously known form in the WHO database. It was one of the weaponized strains created by the USSR during the Cold War. They concluded that a very sophisticated lab has altered it, though, made it more aggressive." "Well, if that antidote works, then they also added an Achilles heel." Scully chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. The anteroom doors swung open, admitting Dr. Lange. He held a capped syringe. Scully walked over to Mulder, reflexively taking his hand in her own. She immediately felt his fevered heat through her gloves, and she noticed that his urine collection bag held conspicuously pink fluid. "We're going to give it a try." Lange stated. "The solution appears to be designed to inhibit bacterial outer membrane fusion with phagocytic endosomes, thus rendering the bacteria vulnerable to digestion. If this works, we should probably see a marked improvement in the next few hours." Scully nodded, noting that Lange had left the alternative unsaid. But the injection had to work. It was the last option. Scully watched with anticipations as he uncapped the syringe and sank the needle into Mulder's IV port. She whispered a quick prayer as the thick liquid traveled through the tubing into Mulder's arm. ****** Scully continued her vigil late into the night, through yet another shift of nurses and technicians. She even took her turn trying to beat Frohike's top score on Langley's game. She failed miserably, but it kept her awake, at least. She was busy telling the Gunmen about some of the peculiar domestic quirks of Mulder's that she had only discovered recently, when she felt his hand jerk beneath hers. That got her attention, and she turned to see his eyes fluttering open. This time, rather than becoming still again, he slowly rocked his head back and forth. He was trying to get away from the ventilator. His fingers continued to twitch as he fought for consciousness. Scully noted that his skin was beading with sweat and felt cooler than it had only a couple of hours ago. She also glanced at his urine collection bag. The fluid appeared a normal color, no longer exhibiting the pink tinge of blood. Mulder's hand twitched again. "Guys, I think he's trying to come around." The Gunmen approached while she pushed the call button. Mulder rolled his head from side to side and began to pull at his restraints. He tried to say something, but it only came out as a clicking sound around the ventilator. "Shhh," Scully tried to calm him, stroking the side of his face with her fingertips through the glove. "Try to relax, Mulder. Save your strength." The Gunmen looked at each other in turn, amazed at the effect her voice had on Mulder. His struggles lessened gradually until he lay still, his expression pinched into a frown. He tried to cough, but he was hampered by the vent. The gurgling in his lungs was audible. Scully squeezed his hand as a sign of encouragement, and Mulder attempted to pry his eyes open again. Soon, his gaze swept the room until he found Scully. She saw fear there, but not panic. His expression relaxed when she smiled at him. "Welcome back, Mulder," Frohike offered with enthusiasm. Mulder turned his attention toward Frohike's voice, and his eyebrows furrowed. Scully had to suppress a giggle at Mulder's confounded reaction to the Gunmen's presence. A nurse entered the room then, covered head to foot with protective wear, and gasped with pleasant surprise upon seeing that her patient conscious. "When did he wake up?" she asked as she began taking Mulder's vitals. "Sleeping Beauty rejoined us just a minute ago," Frohike replied, a gleam in his eye. Langley elbowed him, and Frohike grunted, shooting him dirty look in retribution. "Behave, you two," Scully warned in a matronly voice. The nurse removed an aural thermometer from Mulder's ear and read the display. "He's down to 101 already. Remarkable." She paged the doctor on the room phone and took Mulder's blood pressure. Lange entered the room before she was finished. The Gunmen backed up, making room for the physician. "His BP is normal, Doctor Lange. Temperature is finally decreasing." "Thank you. I'll take it from here." The nurse entered her findings on Mulder's chart and left the room. Lange smiled upon discovering that Mulder was watching him, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "Just relax, Mr. Mulder. I'm going to listen to your lungs." He adjusted the earpieces of the room's dedicated stethescope and slide the tympanic piece under the wide neck of his patient's hospital gown. Mulder flinched upon contact of the cold surface with his fevered skin. Everyone waited quietly while Lange listened to various points of Mulder's chest. After a few moments, he straightened up and removed the earpieces from his ears, directing his attention toward Scully. "Well, it sounds like the congestion in his lungs may have diminished slightly. It certainly doesn't sound any worse. Our mystery cure seems to be working, although it won't remain a mystery for long. We are working on a detailed analysis right now." He addressed the rest of his words to Mulder. "You have respiratory therapy scheduled in just a few minutes, so I'll be back afterwards and see how you feel then. Okay?" Mulder nodded, indicating that he understood. Lange gave him one last reserved but triumphant grin and left the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, Mulder began to stare at Scully, patting his right hand against the mattress. She looked at him, puzzled at his behavior. Mulder moaned and guided her gaze down to his hand, which was now making a side-to-side scratching motion. "John, would you hand me that notepad and pen off of the table? I think he wants to write something." Mulder nodded. Byers retrieved the materials and handed them to Scully. She placed the notepad under Mulder's hand and carefully positioned the pen in his grip, wrapping her hands around his to help him hold the implement. He began to write slowly. Scully could feel his hand tremble with the effort. Finally, he stopped, and she lifted the notepad. The shaky lines scrawled on the paper were nearly indecipherable, but once Scully recognized the "M" at the beginning, she saw the rest of the word. "Michelin?" She looked at Mulder questioningly. He nodded, a deadly somber look on his face. Scully immediately grabbed the room phone and dialed an outside line. After it rang through, she gave her name and badge number and asked to speak to the supervising agent of the FBI task force assigned to investigate the events surrounding Mulder's illness. "Sir? Yes. This is Agent Dana Scully. I'm with Agent Mulder. He's awake now, and he has identified a party involved in infecting him with the organism. Griffith Michelin. He..." Scully's left eyebrow ascended her forehead as she awaited another chance to speak. The long pause made the Gunmen curious, and they all leaned forward in hopes of listening in on the conversation. "I see. Yes, I understand. I will let you as soon as any more information becomes available. Thank you, Sir. Goodbye." Scully hung up the phone with a frown on her face. She glanced down at Mulder and turned to the Gunmen. "Michelin was reported missing by his supervisor at Rousch earlier today. He did not show up for a meeting. There is no one at his listed residence, and they said some items were stolen from his office." "Are they suspecting foul play?" Byers questioned reflexively. "It doesn't sound like it, although they are checking every possibility. Apparently, various data sheets and reports concerning the company's work on a new plague vaccine were among the items taken. The only fingerprints they found were Michelin's. "Think he's trying to leave the country?" Langley asked with disgust. "That would be my guess. That vaccine could be a very valuable haggling tool for him overseas. I wouldn't put it past him." "This sort of thing could create a panic..." Byers stated absently. "I understand why they put us under a gag order, but this all seems too convenient to me." He lifted Mulder's chart from the foot of his bed and flipped through the pages. "Well, what's important is that they find Michelin. He could still have possession of a Class A bioweapon, for all anyone knows." Scully sighed, feeling overwhelmed by the compounding circumstances. She noticed that Mulder's eyes had drifted shut once again. The respiratory therapist pushed his suction equipment through the anteroom door, so Scully gave Mulder's hand one last squeeze before releasing it. She got up and headed toward the lobby to give the technician more room, three vinyl-clad Lone Gunmen in tow. ***EPILOGUE*** Scully was sore. Very, very sore. She opened her eyes to find that she'd fallen asleep on a row of the hospital lobby chairs. Langley sat next to her, once again absorbed in a video game on his laptop. She could not help but notice that her three Gunmen had dwindled down to one. "What time is it?" she asked in a groggy voice. "Oh, hey!" he said by way of greeting as he paused his game. "It's, uh...9:30 in the morning." "Why didn't you guys wake me? I certainly didn't mean to fall asleep while waiting for the doctor to come back..." He grinned at her, causing his black-rimmed glasses to rise on his face. "You looked beat Scully. Uh... N-no offense," he stuttered when Scully shot him the eyebrow. "Mulder was sleeping most of the time, anyway. The nurses say he's still improving. The docter even said that he might get discharged in as few as three days, if all goes well. I guess they have to keep him for observation for 72 hours." He shrugged. "Yeah. That's standard," Scully stated as she sat up and yawned, absorbing the good news. "Any word on Michelin?" "Nadda. He's not even on the local news. According to the public reports, everything is going just swell." Sarcasm dripped from Langley's voice. Scully rolled her eyes. "So, an anonymous person provides a miracle cure, so no harm, no foul? They must really not have a clue where to look." Scully stood and straightened her suit jacket. "I'm going to go see Mulder. Care to join me?" "Sure." Langley turned off his computer and followed her to the isolation ward. They both suited up and went in Mulder's room. Byers and Frohike were already at Mulder's side. Scully took one look at the man in the bed and turned on Langley. A broad grin lit her face. "Why didn't you tell me he was taken off the vent?" "Well... You didn't ask." He tried to look innocent in spite of his surgical mask. "Mulder, have you those two been keeping you in line, or is it the other way around?" Scully leaned over, placed one gloved hand against the side of his face, and gave him a kiss on the cheek through her mask. When she pulled away, some of the weariness had melted from his features. His pallor was slowly being replaced by a healthy pink. "Hey, Scully," Mulder whispered, his voice raspy. "I'm a free man now." He gave her a weak smile and lifted his hands to demonstrate. His restraints had been removed. "You're an amazing man, Mulder, and if you can behave for three more days, we might even think about busting you out of here." Byers got up and stood next to Scully. "The respiratory therapist said that he's doing remarkably well. The bacteria in his lungs seem to have completely stopped growing. In fact, they've already been able to suction out the majority of it. They're not anticipating any significant amount of permanent damage." Scully surprised Byers by turning and hugging him. Their Tyvek aprons crinkled between them. Byers noted Frohike shaking his head in disapproval. Byers tried to copy the expression of innocence that Langley had just used. It did not work that time, either. "Thanks, guys," she said after turning to face all of them. "Your help has meant a lot to me. If I can ever repay you..." "Eh, don't worry about it, Scully," Langley insisted. "I'm just here to make sure that Mulder doesn't skip out on his tab. He still owes me two cheesesteaks for my playoff brackets." Mulder laughed silently in his bed, simultaneously wincing at the pain in his tender diaphragm. Scully blanched and shook her head at Langley's statement. "What? Autopsies don't phase you, but cheesesteaks *do*?" Langley teased. "Do you know what is in those things, Langley...?" Scully asked incredulously. He stopped to consider his answer. "Well, no, but..." Byers stepped in to stop a debate in the making. "All this talk of food is making me hungry. Why don't we go grab some breakfast?" He addressed his question to Frohike and Langley. "Scully, what can we get you?" "I'll just take an apple and some coffee. Thanks." "No problem. Anything for our little lady," Frohike called on his way out the door. Scully stuck her tongue out at him, even though his back was turned. Mulder shook his bed with laughter. "You know how to pick 'em, don't you, Mulder." He nodded in agreement and reached up with one hand to touch her arm, urging her to sit down. His expression became more serious. "Thank you." His voice was still rough from the ventilator. "Thanks for being here." "Anything for my partner." Mulder's eyes lit up at that statement. "*Anything*?" He sounded hopeful. Squeaky, but hopeful. Scully laughed. "One thing at a time, Mulder." He glanced at the newspaper lying on the bedside table. "Any news on Michelin?" "No. They haven't turned up any leads yet," Scully replied softly. "He screwed up. Someone gave you that antidote because he screwed up." Mulder looked up at Scully in sudden astonishment. "Someone who actually didn't want me dead! That's a switch." He wore a rather smug expression on his face. "Well, that makes two of us. You got into your part way, way too much, Mulder. Please don't do that again." "Yes, Ma'am." The corners of his mouth tugged upwards. He couldn't resist the urge to do one last impression, especially since his dry voice would make it sound more authentic. "I feel happy! I feel happy!" Scully rolled her eyes. ****** Rousch Pharmaceuticals Hans Gregor hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, contemplating. The government seemed to be accepting his explanation of Michelin's disappearance, in light of their lack of evidence to the contrary. Gregor had no idea how Michelin had managed to gather all of the information that was stolen taken without someone noticing. Gregor placed his hand on the phone's receiver again, unsure of whether or not to make the next call. He was not longer particularly concerned with Michelin. Wherever he was, the copy of the genetic engineering notes he had was incomplete. He had taken a preliminary trial copy, not the blueprint for the final product. Even Agent Mulder's survival, although disappointing, was not the most urgent matter. Gregor had more pressing issues weighing on his mind. First and foremost was the government's rejection of the plague vaccine, in spite of the demonstration of the infamous disease as a viable and real threat. Tens of millions of dollars and several years had been poured into its development, and Gregor could not afford to let that go for naught. His very livelihood depended on it. The only other option he could see was to make a profit on its sister project. His hand flexed and opened repeatedly over the phone in apprehension. Finally, he lifted the receiver and punched in the digits on his secure line. "This is Gregor. With Rousch, yes. I'd like to authorize the auction, $120 million minimum." He paused. "I'll be using the account already established." He closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Thank you. Just list the item as '7734'."