Discoveries - Part Three

"Darling, are you sure you're all right?"  He hesitated
before going on, not wanting to give the impression
that he was pressuring her.  She hadn't phoned him in 
the time she said she would.  To date, it had been a
week and five days in which he'd thrashed about in his
quagmire of emotional duress.

Naturally, in the state he'd thrown himself into, his
mind had conjured up all manner of foul play she had
to have met up with, since informing him of her being
under mysterious contract ...again.  If only he had jumed
into that cab, and ridden off with her into the Las Vegas
scintillating night, as she'd wanted him to...  "You 
sound somewhat strange.  Where are you?  Please.  Where?
I know I said I wouldn't, but please--where?"  He derided
himself for the desperation which flooded into his voice.
"I must know."

"And you also know I can't tell you that, sweetheart.  I
would if I could. How I wish I could.  I'm only thinking
of your safety, in case this isn't a secure line, and they 
gain a bargaining chip in return for more cooperation.  I
will never put you at risk.  I'm fine...believe me, I am.
It's better this way."  Better for whom?, he pondered.  
"Hearing your voice makes me whole.  At peace," she assured,
praying her inflection was convincing.

Her cathartic sigh was barely audible, but he heard it;
heard it as clearly as if he were there with her, holding
her close, promising to be with her always.  Giving his life
for release, in exchange for her a priori captivity.

"Please, my dearest, give me your number, then.  At least
that.  I swear I won't use it friviously.  In fact, I'll
never use it, if that's your wish. Just having it in my 
possession will be solace enough.  Solace for knowing we'll
never see each other again.  But a comfort all the same.  A 
compromise; my life line..."

The emotionally-spent woman sighed again, and considered.
Being separated from him was every bit as hard for her.
Harder, since she was under compulsion to cooperate with
entities and souless creatures, who had somehow managed to
overtake her again.  Sycophants, the love of her life was
bent on exposing.  She as well, if, by some miracle, she could
vanish from under their collective, clandestine noses for good.  
Perhaps for that, and for so many other tenderer reasons,
against her better judgment, she spoke the several digits 
involved in reaching her, and prayed no one was eavesdropping.
For his sake.  Only for his.

Immediately, the number was committed to indelible memory.

Off in the near distance, Byers could hear Frohike rummaging
for something in the storage room, and cursing colorfully.
The dapper dresser of the Lone Gunmen onsortium whirled
around, using his body as a cone of silence, to continue his
very private conversation.  

As he did so, he stole a look at the wedding band hugging the
customary finger.  The symbol of their impossible love, which 
she'd bestowed with a fragile kiss.  The luster of the gold
blazed in his pupils.  How he wished they had truly gone
through with the ceremony in Vegas, to legalize their spiritual
union.  Maybe, then, permitting himself to get into the cab,
and driving off with her would not be the sickening internal
issue it now had become, which he wrestled with daily.  What
a fool, he condemned.

But, he'd been so torn, convincing himself that she'd be safer
without him.  Yes, what a self-deluder, he maligned.  They'd
be together now, out of harm's way, or, he conjectured on
tenderhooks, smack dab in the middle of it.  She'd be a widow, 
or he a widower.  Or they'd both be dead.  But at least they'd
have given expression to the glory of their love.

"Do you need anything?  Anything at all?  Whatever you--"

  "No.  Not a
thing.  Only the sound of your voice."  There was a deafening
pause, a rushed, "I've got to go.  Love you, John..."  

At the sound of finality of her click, Byers squeezed his
eyes shut, vowing he had to stop living like this; waiting
for her calls, dying a little more inside when she had to go.
But he did have something more substantial now; a laudable
consolation ...the number.  Bless her-- damnify them.  How he
wished he knew the true identities, instead of the shadowy ones,
of her base captors, who'd materialized out of the blue to
re-stake their claim on her, and her genius.  Was it the
Advanced Weapons Facility spectre which had loomed again?  
Or, perhaps yet another newly-spawned branch of the ever-
diverse shadow government?

He jabbed the End button, set the cordless on the work table
counter top and stared at the single link--such a flimsy one--
he had with the only woman he would ever love.  Love?  He
pulled at his softly-bearded chin, catching his breath.  Not
nearly strong enough a word.  Worship. Ah, yes, that was much
better.

"Hey, Byers," Frohike bellowed to jar him out of his tenebrous
introspection.  "Do you think you can tear yourself away from 
whatever you're not doing, and help me find the T-4s39?  If
we're going to make heads or tails out of the data we collected, 
we're gunna need it."

"Didn't Langly have it last?" Byers answered absent-mindedly.

"Don't get me started on even thinking about him right now,
buddie.  When that jerkoff shows, I'm gunna make him clean up 
this place, top to bottom. This lived-in look has gotten real
old, real fast.  Late contemporary pigsty may be his idea of 
gracious living, but it's just so much filth to me!"  Frohike
emerged from the storage room in high scowl mode.  "I gave 
our overgrown playmate his final warning when we left.  Check
him out for not pullin' his weight when it's just light 
housekeeping."

"You're too hard on him sometimes, Frohike.  He's an adult;
not our adopted son."

"Well, some of us have got to be the grown-ups.  He doesn't
even have the presence of mind to be here with Silvio's info,
that is if he was here to receive him in the first place.
Which I really doubt."  The perturbed elfin co-conspiracy
theorist mugged his patented *Don't That Beat All* expression.
"The most important divulgence we've been waiting for since
spring, and the towhead bombshell is no where to be found.
The message's still on the machine.  He knew we'd be getting
back around this time.  Probably out all night partyin' with 
those hometown off-the-wallers he met at the convention, and
is just wakin' up at wherever it is he crashed."

"Then how do you explain the McDonald's breakfast remains?"  
Byers said, wondering how he'd appointed himself Langly's 
defender.

Frohike, ever the player of devil's advocate, eyeballed his
friend a few moments.  Intrepid for making his point, to 
the last.  "Why do you assume it's today's leftovers?  They've
most likely been here from four days ago. Yeah, sure.  Mister 
Fastfood said he was going there just before we cleared out."

"You promised you weren't going to pick on him in his absence--"

"Now when did I say something as ridiculous as that, man?
I'd never put the 'kybosh' on one of my favorite pastimes.
Raking Langly over-the coals.  This conspiracy theorist's
gotta have some fun in this life, since it seems my social one
is permanantly on hold."

Byers was in no mood for Frohike's repetitive griping.  "Come
on then, I'll help you look for the T-4s39.  When we find it,
that should make you happy."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Frohike baited.  "But that's
only if we find it...and, Langly shows up with a billion bucks,
and not his usual punk a--"

"Enough already!"

"Excuses."

The preoccupied associates prepared to fan out in their search,
for the missing tactical analyzing device, when the stultifying
banging on the office door made them both jump out of their
skins.

"Who's that?" Frohike barked, before both pairs of eyes flew
to the surveillance monitors; their ever-vigilent set of extra 
peepers.  He hustled to the door, unlocked, unbolted, unchained,
and gawked at the tumultous foursome as the disjointed group 
spilled into the office.  Giving Langly an annoyed visage as he
brushed past the gnome with a sniggering, all-fun-and-games 
looking Scully moving unsteadily against him, Frohike hurriedly
welcomed, "Hello, Scully, what brings you here?..."

"Cu-Cutie.  M-More playtime with Cutie."  When she'd gotten a
better look at whom had addressed her, she extended a shaky hand 
towards him with the intent of rubbing his bandana-swathed head.
"Hi-Hiya, 'Hik-'Hik-'Hike."  She sounded as though she were 
having a hiccup attack.  "What's ha-happenin', b-babe?"

"Babe?" Frohike echoed.  He turned to Mulder, his puzzled
expression asked his question for him.

"She's on speed," he replied speciously, with a smart alecky
waggle of his eyebrows and wry smile; patently Mulder.  Since 
departing from the hospital, he'd outwardly become more blase.
Quite philosophical in handling her sojourn, he reamed every 
vestige of hope regarding that notion, in zoned-out land.
The flippancy was a mask he'd donned to hide the nadir of his
worry.

"For real?" Frohike eyed Scully in mezmerized incredulity.
When he wheeled around to perform a more thorough evaluation
of his special Special Agent, he was treated to the confounding
sight of her giving Langly another smooch on his ear, and then
poking an exploratory finger into it.

"No," Mulder amended, "but her good judgment..." he targeted
Langly with sharpshooter eyes, "has been severely compromised."

"She's got one whopper of a serious ear fixation," Langly
audibly noted.  He chuckled, cocked his head to one side, 
delicately extracting Scully's finger from his ear and
straightened up a bit more.  Starting off, he headed for his
domain of computers, and assorted other treasured devices,
with Scully blissfully glued to him.  He knew before he could
start in earnest that he'd have to replace the current
motherboard with one more compatible for the task which lie ahead.  
Now, where had he stashed his customized ones last?  Maybe
Frohike was right.  Maybe he should get more organized.  Wait,
there they are.  Ah, now for product.

"Hey, what sickness is this?" Frohike groused.

"Silvio," Mulder cricked his thumb at the contact whose stint
at being a fifth wheel still hadn't completed, "here made the 
mistake of bein' the noble gentleman, and got her a large coffee
and outrageously over-buttered corn muffin when Langly and I 
asked him to watch her for a few minutes while we went over her
blood work with one of her ER doctors."  He patted the bemused 
Brazilian on his back.  "Way to go, Sir Walter..."

"And I said I was sorry!  I didn't know it was not what I should
have done.  How many times, and for how long, are you going to 
blame me?" Silvio shouted in self-defense of his innocently doing
a striking lady a favor when she'd whimpered, and unfairly 
flashed her big baby blues to win him over to her way.

"What jibberish is this, man?  Would someone mind making with
an explanatory moment before Byers and I die of neglect?  What
the he--"

"'Hik-'Hike," Scully boomed in a highly querulous tone from
Langly's corner of the office, as she wound several tendrils of 
his hair around her index finger.  Everyone, including the object
of her infatution, pulsed in startled reflex.  "Pl-Please don't
ye...yell!  'K-'Kay?  My sweet li'l cu-cutie's working o-over
here!  We quiet--whe-when he fin...ishes, we're gon-na
 make-ou-out!"

"DANA!" Langly cried and promptly flushed a gorgeous, searing
crimson. "I never..."  He tossed a defensive shrug at Mulder in 
wordless apologetic agony.  Determindly, he continued plink-
tamping away on his keyboard, with the precision of a diamond 
cuttter, crunching, re-calibrating, then refiguring all manner
of numbers and the configurations and postulates that went along
with them, for all he was worth.  He did his best to ward off
his avid admirer's affecting stroking. Dying of embarrassment 
in light of the curious looks his speculative buds were giving
him, in the process.

"No jive, Mulder's gunna hang my booty out to dry after he gets
through kickin' the livin' crap out of it," he said to himself 
drolly in susurration.

"Th-That's NOT wh-what you said i-in the car, and a-again just
now!" Scully sulked, and wreathed his neck with her willing arms.
"I want you to do me big ti-time.  You sa-said ver-ver...ba...
verbayhum...oh, whatever--'word hu-up' we-we’re ...gon-na get
i-it on...or g-get down... or groooove me.  We're gon-gonna do
IT!  You said!"  Her pout was the proof of veracity.  "S-Said
soooo."

"I NEVER SAID THAT!  What I meant..."  A dry mouth swallow
interposed. "Was, we're gunna rock, as in to get your brain 
unscrambled."  Langly's eyes pleaded with those of his male
friends', which had popped, in abject exacerbation.  "I never 
told her any of that other stuff, guys. I swear!  Hey--it's me."

"Yeah," Frohike upbraided, "don't remind me."  

Langly lowered his eyes momentarily, keenly cognizant of the
fact that he was going to have to execute major lock down on his 
tongue from now on, until she was back to normal.  Which, he
prayed, would be well before he succumbed to the totality of the 
perfection she was.  This was Scully, *in your dreams, man*
Scully, in a ready and willing idyll. The babe bearing the red 
ribboned has-it-all-package...the petite, mouth-watering femme
fatale of the red-haired persuasion, which he'd forever longed
to find in a woman who flat-out adored him.  If there were such
a wonderous female who had the inclination to appreciate quirky
him.  Fending Scully off was rapidily escalating into a herculean 
feat.  He was beginning to 'dig' all the lusty attention.
Lapping it up giant time.  Aw'right, so, yeah.  So, okay, he had 
whispered something soft and cozy in the neighborhood of, "check
ya out later," in her ear.  In the inviting backseat of Mulder's
car, on the spur of the arousing moment, if only to stave off her 
increasingly attractive, impelling blandishments of take me I'm
yours.  He'd never follow through, though. True?

Come on, Man, TRUE??

*You know what you told her...*  He reflected then, that when
she'd squeezed his upper inner thigh, as Mulder drove to the
office instead of to her home, so he'd be able to punch up his
brainstorming on his beloved, personal hardware, he'd yelped,
almost losing it.  

He'd forgotten what getting so turned on, of the calibre that
rocked a body to its toes and soul, felt like.  It had been a 
good while since he'd been involved with anyone; seriously, or
otherwise.  The very notion that perhaps she was merely acting 
upon some covert feelings she harbored for him, now allowed free
reign in her dazed state, was a total eye opener.  Imagining 
Scully had a thing for him was one thing; a kind of nice thing
to daydream about when he felt low.  Tipped off in a big way 
like this, no thanks to her present stupor, was quite another.
Overwhelming to acknowledge stone sober.  Perhaps after a few
stiff belts at Ryan's, he'd gain a sharper perspective. 

She sported spectacular silver strings.  And, although more than
once since this whole freaky state of affairs had landed on his
plate, he'd unwittingly found himself toying with the idea of
untying one or two, he'd chastised himself for having some nerve.
Take Scully up on her wild offerings?  How, in the name of all
decency and friendship, could he go there without hurting the
few people on the planet he really cared about?  

Far from it being Scully's friendship by its lonesome.  Mulder's
figured vitally into the mix too.  He and the guys knew full
well about the lame on-again-off again 'thing' they had for
each other; a dynamic one, bordering on the 'paranormal.'
Double crossing a friend, in the realm of putting the moves on
his chick was equally, "anathema, man."  And then, there were 
Frohike's lopsided feelings to be tallied for dubious measure,
as well.

Nope, he wasn't as outspoken as Frohike, but, for honesty's
sake, a considerable soft spot had blossomed within his heart 
for Dana also, over the years.  A well-kept secret soft spot,
but a fact even his masking couldn't gainsay.  Her overtures 
weren't helping to keep it so secret right now.  Maybe he was
under the influence too.  Not from vestiges of mind control or 
antidotal drugs, but rather from his own needs.  The need to
listen to, and heed his feelings for a change; without fear.

*Oh, man, this is weighty...*

Deep within him, a war of wills raged full scale.

He squirmed on the stool he presently sat on, while she blew
baby breath puffs of air into his ear, trying to wage an all
out attack for emotional, physical and psychological control.

...Moon Base Echo Ten to Colonel Ringo Langly...Colonel, Sir,
are you receiving a clear transmission?  Is anybody manning the 
ship?  Are you getting sufficient oxygen?  Or, are life support
systems failing?  Do you copy?  Oh boy, Houston, we may have a 
big problem here; could have a marooner on our hands, men.
Update of status momentarily...

Langly shook his head in an effort to download his mind, and
other relevant anatomical sites which had efficaciously 
engaged, owing to the tempting stimulus.  Prime time dilemna,
he was forced to admit.  Not of his own making, but one to be 
reckoned with, nevertheless:  his own  waking, quaking feelings
of desire for foxy Dana, and she being out of her ever-lovin'
lovely right mind.  Paying him that special brand of female
attention which, deep down he craved; his seeming indifference
to the fairer sex, aside.  Uh, oh...the beauteous, freckled
siren beckoned again.

"I believe you, Langly," Mulder assuaged, "just keep going an'
don't stop till you've got some form of concrete why and--."

"What's wrong with Scully?" Byers asked apprehensively, never
having heard her speak so explicitly before.

"Aside from the obvious?" Frohike butted in, riled.  "Behaving
like a sex slave to the long in the tooth boy wonder over there 
in the umbrage.  What, for the love of sanity, gives?"

"Ya know," Mulder said unstintingly, as, from his current
vantage point, he saw his partner seductively plant kisses
along Langly's hairline for the umpteenth ad nauseam time.  He
cracked up inwardly seeing the supertech gulp-gasping, and 
watching poor Frohike cuddle with the green-eyed monster.  "I
think ol' Scarecrow's hormones are finally startin' ta kick in,
fellas.  Look at his face, wouldya.  Seems like he's gettin'
off on all the raw sexuality she's dishin'.  Lift off, or should
I say uplift any second now."  Mulder was on a roll, with no
signs of wanting to brake.  "I wouldn't be surprised if Scully
takes her best shot, and Langly's on the receiving end of the 
sweetest taste he's ever--"

"Mulder!?" Frohike bludgeoned.

"Ssssssh!" Scully hissed.  "Cu-Cutie needs quiet--like I sa-said!
He's d-doin' his th-thing!"

"I heard that, Mulder," Langly spluttered in anger, glaring over
malevolently, and primed for lambast.  "Watch your freakin' 
dirty mind, in league with your filthy mouth!  The trash talk
you're layin' on us, man, sucks--this is Scully you're
reddoggin'--not some tramp!  She can't help it if she's
majestically crocked outta her gourd.  She doesn't know what
she's doing.  Like I keep TELLING you.  Give her the respect you
would if she wasn't."  There, that feels better.  In comfy
re-possession of his clearer thinking faculties, he buckled down
and whizzed on with his virtual permutations.  Sheepishly, his 
starting, in response to her sporadic caresses, became less
frequent.

Lowering his voice, Frohike said again, "Mulder what goes down
here?  Give us something we can understand.  Okay?"

"Flashback of Vegas, gentlemen, or so Mister touchy-feely
thinks.  Susanne's handiwork or works gunking up Scully's 
ability to be the usual scientifically-inclined, buttoned down
self we all know and love, instead of Langly's personal sex 
pistol.  I know, right.  Langly?  She's one sick puppy."
Mulder glanced over at them, and grinned, seeing the 'wunderkin'
hadn't heard.  He went on with an edge to his voice.  "Anyway,
Pointdexter's on the case, 'cause he thinks he has a workable 
framework as a handle.  We'll know in a couple of secs, I guess.
In case his Kung Fu flops, we'll need the real deal heavy 
artillery.  The fair and elusive 'Holly.'  Alias..."

"Susanne?" Byers said wistfully with just a saucon of trepidation.

"Mata Hari," Frohike quipped cryptically.  "I had a feeling..."

"You wouldn't happen to know where she is offhand, Byers, would
ya?" Mulder rejoined, trying to sound as diplomatic as possible, 
mindful of his friend's feelings, but at the same time knowing
that if he had to play hardball, he would.

"Why do you ask?" Byers retorted defensively, and unconsciously
started backing away from the tight circle of men.

"Why d'ya think?" Mulder snapped back, but hedged.  "I'm not
her true love.  You are.  You are, right?  Only makes sense
she'd tell you her whereabouts."

"Yes, we love each other," Byers said with an addled sigh.
"I cannot deny that..."  He looked over at Scully and Langly.  
Tasting sourness at the back of his throat, he tried to clear
it, but the faint aftertaste of The Snapple he'd had an hour 
ago persisted.  "I don't have any idea where she is, Mulder."

"Yeah, that's what Langly said, but I couldn't believe it."

"Byers," Frohike interposed, half-hating himself for the can
of worms he was about to open.  "You've gotta call her back,
and find out.  Scully needs her help."

"WHAT!!"

Within easy range of their ken, and earshot, they heard Scully
effervesce, coupled with exuberant jabs of her index fingers
on Langly's screen, which had taken on kaleidoscopic properties,
"Is tha-that my br-brain, Sweetface?"

"Stop hitting the computer, Dana, it's a highly sensitive piece
of equipment," he said somewhat sharply, and whined something 
unintelligible, or so he thought, under his breath.  His
frenetic finger movements proceeded on, unalterably.

"Sor-Sorry, Cutie...I di-didn't...I didn'mean' to...to--"

"That's okay..."  His tone, lilting, had mellowed aburptly.

*Chill--why are you being such a pisser all of a sudden?  You
know she can't help it.  Who are you really pissed with?  Her
or yourself?*

"Don't b-be mad at m-me...I'll b-be goo--"  She buried her head
in his shoulder, muffling her sniffles, which crescendoed into
tremulous sobs.

"No chance I could be mad at you--hey--c'mon now, Punkin, we're
cool.  Don't, Dana, please.  Oh, man!"  So this was what 
heartbreaking felt like. *You made the high priestess cry, jerk.
 Good goin'.  An' you wonder why you ain't got nobody*

"--Sorry I got so manic.  So cranky.  You know me.  I didn't
mean to upset you.  Don't--I'm really sorry!  Won't happen 
again."  He leaned into her, and cooed into her ear, "Promise."
Goaded by impulse, he planted a tender kiss on its velvety 
crest, and got a heady wiff of her fragrant essence.  He smiled.
Even the hospital's lethal medicinal fumes were incapable of 
robbing her of that sweet, floral aroma.  His left hand flew off
the keyboard and squeezed her waist.  "We'll always be cool.  
You're the Princess, right?"

Her sobbing stopped instantly.  She turned her head slightly,
peeking up at him, and nodded.  The poignant look in her eyes 
was daunting.  Langly felt his heart pound through a skipped beat.

"There's nothing not to like 'bout you..." he whispered, and
Scully wiped her tear-stained cheeks off on his tee-shirt.

Mulder took careful note, seeing a version of Langly he never
dreamed lurked beneath the scrubbiness.  Where had he kept this 
*human* side of himself hidden, under lock and key, all these
years?  A faint taste of bile rose up in the agent's throat,
causing him to gag a bit.  *Watch it, buster...just 'cos she's
loony tuney, that doesn't give you the right to make so
nicey-nicey*

Frohike flicked his finger at the cordless.  "I know you spoke
to her a while ago."

"How?"  Byers accused, looking like a convicted felon.  He
rolled his eyeballs in fluttery fashion, then cast his eyes to 
the floor.

"How do you think, man?"

"You're delusional, Melvin."

Frohike nodded.  "Yeah, tell me about it, John.  But, the
broadscan recorder ain't.  You know.  The one that's always 
listening?"  He saw how the pall had quickly changed the
complexion of his comrade's now ashen face.  In Byer's delight
over having the tender conversation, he'd forgotten about every 
square inch of the office being bugged.  It had been his idea
to take the measure.

"Sorry, buddy. I heard the playback as soon as she ended the 
conversation. We're gunna haveta use the number for Scully's
sake."

"We cannot.  Cannot!"  Byers decried.  "Susanne's safety is
the only thing I value!"

"Getting Scully back to normal is the chief concern, pal,"
Frohike vollyed, crowding in closer to him.  "Mata Hari be dam--"

"Hey, guys," Langly interjected, sounding heady, and unaware
that his two best buds were about to square off.  "Get a gander 
at this..."

Once the men had gathered around, Scully, fully recovered from
her crying jag, said, beaming, "Kewpie's a genius!"  She giggled 
as she ruffled Langly's hair.

"Uh huh, but don't tell him that," Mulder jibed.  He settled
his hands on her writhing shoulders to keep her close to him.

"Y-Your voice sounds l-like I know it, m-man," Scully teased
in a girlish voice.  She wriggled around to take him in, and 
scrutinized the handsome, yet still wholly unfamiliar face.

Langly snickered softly, to which Mulder fired a [what's so
funny?] expression at him.  "Well, it's about time something 
about me's coming back to ya.  We're working on your remembering
the rest, Pard."

On screen, the vivid 3-D analogous graphic of Scully's brain
anatomy, cross-sectioned into tinctured latticed planes,
revolved.  Langly hit Control-Alt-Escape to freeze the schematic.

"Nifty," Frohike awarded for the elegant computer model.  "Okay,
so what's the verdict?"

Langly pursed his chapped lips, hit the shift key thrice,
clicked the mouse twice, paused a second, and then clicked once, 
again, to up the magnification to three point five X.  "Frontal
lobe, front and center," he clarified.  "Cognition and 
memory...the 'Gatekeeper.'  Judgment, inhibition.  Higher
cognitive functions.  The whole ball of rational wax, or in 
Scully's case, irrational.  At the moment."

"Which lobe specifically are we looking at?" Mulder inquired.

"The anterior," Langly qualified, without hesitation.  "When
trauma occurs in this region, there's mega impairment of recent 
memory, inattentiveness, inability to concentrate, behavioral
disorders, lack of inhibition--you KNOW that's right--
inappropriate social and, or, sexual behavior.  No argument
there.  And, emotional lability; which all of you just 
witnessed when she got tearful."  His sympathetic looking eyes
embraced Scully as she molded herself to him once more, and 
out from under Mulder's containment.  "Case closed.  Judgment
for one messed-up honey."

"I'm not liking the sound of any of this," Frohike quantified.
He reached out to take Scully's hand, and she squeezed it hard 
with a melting grin.  "What if these symptoms are irreversible?"

Langly had no immediate answer for that.  He couldn't bring
himself to consider that unacceptable possibility, regardless
of all the sweet attention she was lathering him with.

"I like 'Hike!"

"What's caused this?" Mulder said in an apprehensive tone.
"With minimal guesswork."

"Now that's where it gets hairline tricky," Langly said with
a deeply-furrowed brow.  "Minimal, huh?  No snap.  From what
the hospital's blood work, and the analysis I just ran through
the VirtuBio access remote on the sample of her blood you
secured, show, there's an abnormally high concentration of what
I'm reading as an alkaloidal recombinant in her bloodstream.  
It's especially saturating the anterior frontal lobe, primarily,
which, I believe it's fair to assume, accounts for her trauma."

"A recombinant?  Recombinant with what?" Byers pitched in,
ignoring the grilling looks both Frohike and Mulder were giving 
him.  "That looks unknown."  Silvio stared disconnectedly at
the screen and wondered for the countless number of times today
if he would see his homeland any time soon.  He'd never seen
four men so caught up, so engrossed in, granted an important
matter, but one he felt himself to be on the outskirts of.

"With fatty acids.  Weird right?  Normally this would never
occur with these garden variety glyceride esters.  Nothing 
sinister about them on their own.  But they're sorta quasi
jelling, and behaving like crackpot radicals of the rabid 
liberated genre.  The bizarre combo could be the gunkup
culprit, assuming new chemical properties and reactions.  
Although, that's a titanic guess.  Heaven knows she's consumed
enough caffeine from Coke and coffee to supply, not to mention a 
mother load of butter to account for the fatties."

"There's a connection between those substances?" Mulder asked, 
and stepped in closer to the monitor to get a better look at
the analytical readouts bombarding the screen.

"This freaky recomb-combo, in tandem with something, or things
else, may be a triggerer...a catalyst for screwing with the
A-F-L.  The temporal lobe also, to some degree, which accounts
for her bouts of childish behavior.  But, maybe not.  I haven't
been able to pinpoint anything clear-cut, despite all the reconfigs 
I've tried."  Langly sighed heavily, his eyelids feeling as
though they weighed a ton each. He'd felt tired before, but this 
was different.  His mind reeled.  It wasn't often he came up
with nothing, to his liking, to show for his normally *perfect 
tens* mental gymnastics.

"Beats me really.  Is it this zany alkapropionicoleic combo,
acting alone, or has it somehow reactivated traces of the 
derivative of E-H gas, Susanne's Anoinic Histamine?  OR, has
the A-P-O bonded with the antidote, amyldalapon?  Another of 
Susanne's derivatives, the latest brainchild on the long list
of her unique creations, and the bonding with A-P-O has made it
go stark ravin' wild.  She herself said that the antidotal
derivative takes time for the body to rid itself of it.  Both
drugs beat the crap outta Dopamin.  According to her, detox
takes longer if too much caffeine or fats are ingested over, 
say roughly, a month's time...in certain individuals.  Scully's
saturation brook point may have been reached long ago.  What 
we're witnessing could be max blitz, with no more spontaneous
recovery.  Man--there's too much freakin' choice here..."

"How lucky for Scully.  Bein' the caffeine freak she is.  And
we've all seen her inhale butter.  Who knows how much she's 
ingested of both comestibles, spanning the time we got back
from Vegas.  This is like shootin' fish in a barrel in a pitch
black room, wearin' a blindfold, man," Frohike croaked, sounding
dismal and looking heartsick.  "Only Miz Drugs knows what we 
could be dealing with here."

"That's a truth," Langly concurred.

Mulder edged away from the monitor, feeling akin to them both.
Lining Langly up in the crosshairs of his hawklike eyes, he 
charged, sounding gravelly, "But in the hospital you said--"

"Like forget most of what I said back there when I was
mem-loopin' out loud.  I had a hunch about the caffeine and
fat, but I didn't have actual hard data, and IT suggests we're
handicapped, as in way over a barrel, trying to solve this
schizoid puzzle without all the pieces, and the esoteric lady
who's put it together in the first place."  Langly contributed
his look of [uh huh, bud, we's talkin' to you] to the Byers'
fund.  Then, winking at Scully he declared, "Guess it's a safe
bet that at least if she's kept away from caffeine and 
butterfat, she shouldn't get any worse, guys."  He smacked his
lips before pressing them together.  "Least, I hope that's the 
indication."

He reversed the angle of the schematic and, with a good deal
of bravado stated, "I'm not about to make like mad Doctor 
Transylvannia with Scully's health; mental or physical.
Frohike's got my vote.  Susanne hauls her butt to Scully, or 
Scully's gets hauled to her, a-s-a-p, before permanent
repercussions present."

"You hear that, John?  Fun an' games are over.  I'm getting
the number off the machine.  You make the call, or I will, if 
you won't," Frohike vowed, without a cast of mirth in his tone.
Like an undaunted dervish, he moved swiftly to a five-by-three
inch rectangular shaped device, lodged inside a sleeved wall
mount, behind a jammed packed rack off to the left.  What a
tragic thing to have happened to Scully, all due to their
penchant to play Dick Tracy one too many times.  Wishing there 
was a better light source, he mashed down on a button, and
waited.

Byers was flummoxed.  He didn't know what he was going to do,
as all the remaining sets of penetrating stares seemed to force 
him into pressurized submission.  Yet, someway, somehow, that
call could never be placed.  He had no idea where he was going 
to get the gumption to stand up to his chums.    Beads of sweat
materialized to assume their customary positions on his forehead.

And then, just when it felt as though he would crumble like the
friable piece of stale sponge cake he so often judged himself to
be, under the inescapeable burden of Mulder's, Langly's and even 
Silvio's, now, judgmentally-tinged countenances, the cordless
sounded in high-pitched summon of, "Answer me!"

It was also at that precise moment that Frohike erupted with
volcanic swearing.  "Stupid-stupid-stupid," he ranted.  "You're
one sorry--"  He flung himself backwards into the rack.  More
cursing of seismic proportions ensued.  Much of the technical 
bric-a-brac was noisily dislodged from the rack.  In his blind
haste to retrieve the number, he'd hit 'Erase' by mistake.
"Son-of-a--"

"Hey, Frohike," Mulder called out, "what's with the tirade?
You're gunna blow a gasket.  Spare us the profanity.  What's
the number?"

"Oh, shutup, Mulder," was Frohike's surly reply.

"Hello?" Byers answered in a quavering voice.

"Darling--oh thank God!  Please, please--you must help me!
I'm so frightened! I need you!"  In the momentary lull, the
caller mined her mind for words which should have been spoken
earlier.  Resignedly, the halting voice muttered, "Forgive me.
I'm so, so fool...i...sh...but, but I won't be able to live
wi--"

"SUSANNE!" he shouted, in anguished disbelief.  Panic seized
his thinking ability.  She sounded mortified, demoralized.
Painfully all alone; he not there to provide succor.  If it
could have been humanly possible, he would have stuffed
himself into the phone, then and there, in order to be with
her that very moment.  Gasping, he continued huskily, "Oh, my
God...Su--"

"You must see for yourself, John.  Before...before it's too
late.  Too late for us all..."

It's going to be all right, my dearest.  Where are you, my love?
I'm, I'm--there!"