TITLE:  World Without End: Book Two (14/?)
AUTHOR:  Rachel Anton
E-MAIL:  RAnton1013@aol.com

xxxxxx

A bluish-black fluid swirling in a glass tube in my 
hands as I turn it over and over and over.  Reminds 
me of one of those relaxation, lava lamp type things 
businessmen and shrinks used to keep on their desks.  
How can something so simple hold so much hope, so 
many answers?

I couldn't sleep when I got home last night.  Well, 
technically, this morning.  Not that this is anything 
new, but this time it wasn't an insomnia born of 
anxiety and melancholy.  I was just too excited to 
let myself rest.

I walked to the lab at the crack of dawn, anxious to 
continue the work Scully and I started last night.  I 
couldn't really do anything without her here though, 
so I've spent the last two or three hours staring at 
the strange gelatinous substance and marveling at how 
much the two of us can accomplish together.

Roseanne showed up about fifteen minutes ago, and 
she's joined me in my staring and marveling.  I don't 
think she's completely fathomed it yet.  I think she 
wishes she'd been here last night.  I'm glad she 
wasn't.  It was our moment, mine and Scully's.

"Do you think anyone will volunteer?"  she asks after 
several moments of awed silence between us.

"I don't see why not.  Anyone who's sick will 
probably be willing to take the risk."

And hell, it's not like we've got any shortage of 
sick people around here.  We've got lists upon lists 
of people who've come to us with symptoms.  People 
who've come to us for help.  Help that we haven't 
been able to give beyond taking some blood from them 
and handing them meager supplies of medication to 
lessen the pain a tiny bit.

"I think they'll be lining up outside the door, 
Roseanne."

She nods in agreement and then shakes her head in 
disbelief.

"This is unreal, Mulder.  You guys are just...wow."

"It was mostly Scully," I tell her, honestly.  Scully 
has been working hard on this for as long as I've 
been here, but for the past month or so she's been 
going after it with a ferocious tenacity.  And this 
past week has been the absolute height of that.  I 
really didn't provide much more than fluid.  And 
encouragement.  And an annoying voice, second-
guessing everything she said.  I guess it was just 
the right combination.

"That's not really true," we hear a voice muttering 
from the doorway.  We turn around and both of us 
break into spontaneous applause at the sight of her.   
Our savior.  My Scully.

My Scully who...who is always beautiful to me but 
right now looks like a pile of shit.  I have seen her 
suffering the most abysmal lows of a lifetime and 
yet, I have never seen her in this kind of a state.  
She's always been meticulous about her appearance, 
even under the most dismal of circumstances.

Today her hair is hanging in clumps around her face, 
tangled and greasy.  Her eyes are surrounded with 
dark, raccoon-like circles.  Her jeans are dirty, and 
her shirt is buttoned wrong.

But there's more to it than just the superficial 
dishevelment.  There is an energy surrounding her, an 
aura of defeat and disappointment.  An atmosphere of 
death that is completely inconsistent with the 
moment, dissociated from any reality I understand 
right now.

"Stop it guys," she grumbles, staring at the floor 
and holding up her hand to stave off our 
appreciation.

Roseanne runs over to her and gives her a bear hug, 
to which Scully barely manages to respond.  Her arms 
hang limply at her sides and she doesn't smile.

"Dana, I can't believe it!  Aren't you excited?"

"Yes.  Yes, it's very exciting," Scully intones in a 
flat deadpan.  Roseanne pulls back from her and takes 
a good look at her face for the first time.

"Dana, what's wrong?  You look like hell."

"I'm fine.  I just...I didn't get much sleep."

She walks past Roseanne and sits down at the table 
across from me.

"Scully..."

"I'm fine, Mulder.  Have you prepared the injection?"

"Not yet.  I figured we'd make some kind of 
announcement first and ask for a volunteer.  I 
thought you'd want to call a meeting.  Gather the 
people on the list and..."

"Just prepare the injection, Mulder."

"You don't want..."

"Just prepare the damn injection, Mulder."

Roseanne and I exchange a glance fraught with worry 
and confusion.  She walks over to the sink, takes a 
needle out of a sterilization jar and brings it over 
to me.  I dip the point into the test tube and fill 
the syringe.  Roseanne stands behind me and watches 
silently.  I can feel her nervous breath on my neck.

"Well, I guess all we need now is an arm."

Scully begins rolling up her sleeve, and a horrible 
truth starts to dawn on me.  Something I suppose I 
must have known in the back of my head.  Must have.  
How could I not have?

She drops her naked arm onto the wooden table with a 
terrifying thump, and all three of us stare at the 
white skin and the bluish veins for an interminable 
moment.

"Are you going to do it or not?"  Scully finally 
asks.  The syringe is shaking in my hand.  I'm afraid 
I might drop it, or crush it.

"Scu..."

My throat refuses to strangle out anymore than that 
syllable.

"Give me the injection, Mulder."

Has she looked like this all along?  Has she been 
this sick for all this time?  No, I would have 
noticed that.  Surely, I would have noticed.

God, Scully.  How could you not tell me?

"Dana, what the hell are you doing?"  Roseanne 
whispers, sounding as mortified as I feel.  I suppose 
she was in the dark as well.

"I want you to give me the injection," Scully intones 
again.

"But you...oh my God, Dana.  You...why didn't you 
tell me?"

I'm glad Roseanne is capable of asking these 
questions because I seem to have lost the power of 
speech altogether.

"I didn't want you to worry," she answers.  As if 
this explanation will suffice for either of us.

"Does Alex know?"  Roseanne asks, and I feel like 
slapping her for giving voice to my worst fears.  For 
making me feel a sickening jealousy when all I should 
be concerned with is Scully's health.  Could she 
share this with him?  With him and no one else?

"Just give me the damn injection!"

She slams her arm down emphatically, rattling the 
table.  Roseanne and I exchange another nervous 
glance.  The excitement I could barely manage to 
contain just five minutes ago has transformed itself 
into absolute terror.

"Scully, are...are you sure?  There could be side 
effects.  I mean, we don't really know what this is 
gonna do."

"Side effects?  Mulder..."

I look at her bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks and 
realize that what I said earlier applies just as much 
to her as anyone else.  Whatever side effects there 
may be, they can't be worse than dying of cancer.

I swallow a mouthful of bile and reach for her arm.  
With shaking hands, I plunge the needle into her 
flesh and share my blood with her.

xxxxxxx

Metal.  It was everywhere.  Shiny, silver sheet-
metal.  The floors, the walls, the ceiling.  It was 
like running through a tin can.  The bastards just 
loved metal.  He could see himself reflected in every 
direction.  Sweaty, bloody, gripped with a lunatic 
desperation.

They were losing.  Lost.  Devastated.

Even with the extra troops, sent by the old Brit to 
help them out, there simply weren't enough of them.  
There could never be enough.

He'd seen so many die in his lifetime.  Should have 
been able to stand the sight but couldn't.  Not when 
they were his men.  Not when this was his fault.

So he ran.  For his life and theirs.  To give their 
deaths a meaning.  He ran through the cold, inhuman 
hallways, through the stench of smoke and death, over 
piles of fallen bodies.  He would find what they came 
for.  He would find it if it killed him.

xxxxxx

Dead.  Brittle and broken.

She held the ends between her fingers, watched her 
reflection in an unfamiliar mirror tacked to an 
unfamiliar wall in an unfamiliar room.  Her new home.  
Her bags on the bed and floor, still packed even 
though it had been two days already.

He usually trimmed it for her.  Straight lines all 
across, an incredibly steady hand.  He loved to do 
it.  To caress the fiery strands and cut away the 
fragile, splitting bottoms.

Her eyes traveled from the tips of her fingernails 
down, over her palms and the white expanse of her 
arm.  Her veins.  A bandage just below the underside 
of her elbow.  White gauze to cover the puncture 
wound left behind by the needle that gave her new 
life.  New hope.

But what hope was there for her when he would never 
want to touch her hair again?

Another wave of nausea.  The third since she'd gotten 
the injection.  Side effects already?

Cold steel blades and a heavy black handle, resting 
on the dressing table in front of her.  She ran her 
fingers tentatively over the sharp metal, wrapped 
them around the base.

Perhaps she could do it herself.  Perhaps she didn't 
need anything from him anymore.  Perhaps a part of 
her new life would have to be letting go.  Letting it 
all go.

She brought the blades to her hair and started 
cutting.

xxxxxxx

Sharp needle, steel blade to the back of the neck.  
Green fluid oozing from the wound as the man falls to 
the ground in the doorway.  The third guard he has 
had to kill to get to this room.

Always, he remembers this as an easy task.  Forgot 
again how much strength and precision, how much 
intensity is required.  They don't die easily.

Already exhausted from doing this so many times, he 
stepped over the fallen body, only mildly distracted 
by the way the blood scorched a hole in the floor.

It was the room, the one that had been described to 
him so many times.  It was all here.  Everything.  
Everything and nothing.  A cure that had already been 
discovered and a weapon that would be useless if they 
didn't get out of here alive.

Cold, so cold he could see his own breath.  The room, 
bigger than he'd been told.  Huge.  Endless.  
Equipment covered in frost and glass cabinets filled 
with mysterious substances of varying color and size.  
Labels in a language he never learned to read.  How 
was he supposed to find it?

He pulled the tattered piece of paper out of his 
pocket, descriptions and codes that were supposed to 
lead him to it.  Caught a glimpse of his watch, the 
time.  It was almost time.  The whole place would be 
going up in flames in a matter of minutes.

Flashes of panic, white-hot and sickening.  If only 
she were here.  She could help him figure this out 
quickly, calmly.

No time to think of her either.  Another one of his 
bridges, burned beyond recognition.

Palms pressed against the glass, the handle not 
turning, plastic fist through glass in desperation, 
releasing who knows what into the air he was 
breathing.  Pulling vials and jars frantically, 
dropping some onto the floor.  Not this one.  Not 
that one.  All of them cold as ice, burning his skin.

Footsteps behind him.

Blond hair and icy smile.  She would help him.  
Someone had to.

She held up a paper-thin, plastic card.  Walked 
calmly towards one of the cabinets and slid the key 
through, gaining entry.

She knew.  Right away, she knew which cabinet held 
the weapon.  Rows of small tubes filled with a 
reddish, thick-looking fluid.  Not enough in itself 
but  mixed with what they already had, it would be.  
It was the substance they needed, the missing link.  
The one thing in the universe that might make all the 
loss worthwhile.  That might redeem him.

How did she know?

How did she know so quickly?

Realization crept into his consciousness as he 
approached her.  But too late.  She was already 
pointing a gun at him.

xxxxxx

She'd cut too much.  Almost to her shoulders, and 
uneven.  No more straight lines.

She looked ridiculous, like a child who'd had a 
mishap with a pair of scissors.  Too much hair, too 
thick and long to cut precisely.  How did he do it?

She tried to shorten the longer patches to match the 
shorter ones but only succeeded in shortening them
too much.

Frustrated, she slammed the scissors down on the 
table.  Tears clouding her vision for a moment.  A 
blessing really.  Couldn't bear to look at herself 
any longer.

But, no.  To cry again would be to admit defeat.  The 
reaction had been understandable at first.  Natural.  
But now, pathetic.

Rubbing her fists against her eyelids, an attempt to 
banish her weakness.  She could do this.  Had to.  
Such a simple task.  Surely she couldn't have become 
so dependent.

Deep breath and the metal in her hand again.  No 
reason to try and maintain her appearance anymore.  
She'd already destroyed the cut.  Better to be 
different, new.

She brought her hand up to her chin, captured a chunk 
of hair between her fingers, and started to
create.

xxxxxx

He'd been here before.

Not physically here, but internally, emotionally.  
This was too familiar to be surprising.

She'd done it to him again.  He was her fool.  Again.  
The difference, significant.  This time she was 
taking the entire world down with him.

Who was she working for this time?  The smoking 
bastard?  The colonists?  Rebels?  Or was she only 
out for her own personal glory?  Did it matter?  
She'd betrayed him.  Double-crossed him.  Again.

He'd been a master at this game.  In another life, 
another soul.  No, no other soul.  He hadn't had to 
bother with a soul.  She'd given him that.  He 
thought it was a blessing but maybe now, it was his 
curse.

Why?

He asked her why.  Why was she doing it?  What was 
she after?

She offered a macabre smile and told him it was his 
turn, before knocking the row of vials to the ground.  
Broken glass and red fluid on the floor.  Useless 
now.  Even to her.

Hatred.  That was her only reason.  For whatever 
alliance she might have formed or what she might hope 
to gain from this.  It didn't matter.  She was filled 
with hatred and resentment.  That was the true 
motivating factor behind this.

She wanted him to suffer.  It was as simple as that.  
Or as complicated.

He wondered if her father was a part of this 
betrayal.  If this had all been an elaborate trap, 
setting him up like a hunted animal.

Either way, she was probably protected.

Time.  He had so little time.  There was no way to 
salvage the bio-weapon, no way to save any of his 
men.  No time.  Getting himself out of the building 
had to be his only priority.

She stood in the doorway, armed to the teeth.  
Blocking him.  Mocking him.

He told her that the place was set to explode, that 
they would both die here together if she didn't let 
him pass.  Strangely enough, that seemed to be her 
plan.

He wondered briefly if he deserved this.

Probably.

But still, he wasn't willing to give up.  Even now 
when there was nothing left.

Overpowering her turned out to be relatively easy.  
He was halfway out the door when he heard her call to 
him from where he'd shoved her on the floor.  He was 
holding her gun.

"You're going to lose everything, Alex."

He turned to her and said, "I already have, Marita.  
I already have."

And then he shot her dead.

xxxxxx

New style, but old as well.  Familiar.  Too familiar.

She'd done a decent job this time.  Chin length bob.  
No frills.  A little more curly than she'd kept it 
but it was the same, more or less.  Scully's hair.

It was still wrong.

She needed something else.  Something even simpler, 
colder, more harsh.  Straight lines.

It would make her far less attractive.  She found 
that this thought was actually a motivating force.

She moved the blades a little higher, then higher 
still.  She cut a line just above her ear.  Shorter 
than it had ever been.

When she was done, she barely recognized the woman in 
the mirror.  There was a pile of hair, covering her 
feet and the floor surrounding her.

She smiled.

xxxxxx

End Chapter Fourteen