_title_: Overload (NC-17; Sk/Sc + M) Author: Trajan Dunn Summary: Mulder's twisted obsessions lead to speculation about a new type of weapon, and threaten to disrupt the complex relationships between himself, his partner, and his boss.  Follows The Watcher. Keywords: Sk/Sc + M. Warning: Rated NC-17; adults only, please. (Explicit sex; violence) Disclaimer: All characters are owned by their respective production houses, including 10-13, Chris Carter, Fox, etc. I'm just borrowing them for a while; no money is changing hands. Archive: Where you will, but keep author's name, rating, and disclaimer attached. Comments to: This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it Mulder woke up late the next day feeling as bad as he looked.  He'd slept fitfully and dreamed intensely, and although he tried, he couldn't remember any of it.  He stood in the shaft of sunlight that filtered in through the grimy window beside the couch he'd slept on, wondering what to do.  Reluctantly dragging himself to the bathroom, he reluctantly examined himself in the mirror.  His skin was sallow and there were dark circles under his eyes.  What fine lines there were in his face seemed etched even deeper, as if whatever was consuming his mind was also destroying his body.  He remembered that he hadn't eaten last night, but he wasn't hungry this morning, either. He tried to keep his mind blank, and he lay down again in the sunlight, enjoying the warmth on his skin until he began to process the sensation through the terrible obsession that was afflicting him.  Soon, the light began to burn him, to sear through him, as if vaporizing the very water molecules in his flesh as it penetrated deeper and deeper.  Unable to move, he simply felt.  He had to find a way to control this unnatural sensitivity to external stimuli.  When a mote of dust had the effect of a wasp sting, normal activity was impossible.   He wasn't prepared for the knock on his door, and the small feminine voice right behind it. Mulder? Damn. Mulder?  Open up, it's me, Scully. Scully, he said, too softly for her to hear.  But he heard the key he'd given her turn in the lock, and in seconds she was in front of the couch where he was stretched out. She peeled off her gloves, and laid them on his desk.   You look terrible, Mulder, she said, taking off her coat and draping it over the back of a chair.  She reached out a hand to his forehead but he grabbed her wrist before she could touch him. I'm fine, Scully.  Just tired.  She looked at her hand and he released it, embarrassed. She pulled her wrist back and rubbed it where he'd squeezed too hard.   I ignore a hell of a lot of strange behavior from you, she said pointedly, so when I say you're acting strange, I mean it.  What's going on, Mulder? I told you, Scully.  I'm just tired. Bullshit, she whispered under her breath.  She stood up and put on her coat.   Look, when you're ready to talk, you know how to reach me.  I'm going back to work. He watched her stride to the door, projecting all the indignance that her tiny _frame_ would allow.  When the lock clicked home he let out the breath he'd been holding.  He could still sense her presence, in the motion of the air, and the faint residue of her perfume.  He looked sideways and realized she'd left her gloves, and he reached over to them, unable to stop himself.  Heightened senses concentrated in his fingertips as he touched the soft lambskin and the knitted cashmere lining.  He could still feel the heat from her hands and the knowledge re-ignited his need to watch. No! he shouted to the empty room, and lay back on the couch, seeking the oblivion of sleep. *** There's something wrong, and he's not telling me. Are you speaking as a physician, Agent Scully, or a friend?  Skinner asked her. Both, actually.  She leaned over his desk, palms flat on the polished wood surface.   He's really sick, Walter.  I'm usually the first one he comes crying to with a hangnail, but he won't let me help with whatever this is. You want me to go over there? She went behind his chair and slipped a small hand into his shirt, and stroked him gently.   Would you? she said, lips close to his ear.  When she touched him, he could deny her nothing.  And she knew it. I'll stop by on my way home.  Will that do?  he said gruffly. That will do fine.  But after you leave him, come straight over.  I have something for you.  The sly twinkle in her eye did much to allay his concerns for Mulder.  She wouldn't be so casual about it if he were in real trouble. At 7PM he packed up his briefcase and pitched it into the back seat of the black Ford, glad to be out of the office. He started the engine, still listening for the split-second sputter plaguing the twin carbs even though the mechanic had assured him the problem was solved.  Finally satisfied, he pulled out of the garage and headed for Mulder's apartment. He was relieved to find that his agent was gone. Presumably, whatever malady he suffered wasn't sufficient to keep him home. In the weeks since they'd returned from New York, he'd felt curiously content.  She'd promised to keep him at arm's length during working hours, and for the most part, she did.  He didn't think she realized that he desired her every waking moment of every day.  These nights they had together were sacred to him. He felt at ease as he knocked on Scully's door.  She let him in with just a big smile and a silky slip of a plum-colored teddy that wiped any semblance of calm from his face. She pulled the stunned man into her apartment, and pried the briefcase from his locked fingers, enjoying the effect she was having on him.  He couldn't tear his eyes away from her.   Each time she gave him so much more savor, to enjoy, to appreciate.  But he didn't want to savor her slowly now.  He pulled off his coat and threw it across her couch, and pulled her to him roughly.   A strangled sound came from Mulder as he watched his boss and his partner through the binoculars from his perch on the adjacent roof.  He felt everything Skinner felt, sensation heightened even further by his possession of Scully's glove.  He touched it now, in the bottom of his coat pocket, fingering the soft leather as if it were her skin.  He tried to tear his eyes from the passion playing out in the warmly lit rooms, but he didn't have the strength. Did you see him? she whispered against his throat as his big hands pressed her against his straining erection. I don't want to talk about Mulder now, he murmured into her hair. I want to... she started, but he kissed her with an intensity that drove all thoughts from her head.  He knew what she needed, what she wanted.  She liked the feeling of being practically naked against his fully clothed body, liked feeling his barely restrained power as he advanced on her.  He made her feel like the most desirable woman on the face of the earth, and nothing could compare to that. Nothing. Mulder watched his partner melt under Skinner's sensual assault, nearly turning herself inside out in her desire to give him anything he wanted.  His partner.  She should be his partner.  Two thousand wasted nights.  The vivid images transmitted to his fevered brain through the high-power lenses almost caused him to lose consciousness.  This is what real lust feels like, he thought, it's sacred, it's holy... She practically jumped into Skinner's arms, and he wasted no time carrying her to the bed.  He dropped her unceremoniously onto the quilt, and practically tore his own clothes off in his rush to get to her.  She was an addiction he could never satisfy.  She writhed under his gaze, and touched herself, knowing how it incited him.  He fell onto her, and held her hands over her head, wanting to taste her submission. Take this off or I'll rip it off, he growled as he ground against her. She hooked a leg over his and deftly flipped them over, leaving her straddling his hips.  She reached up and shrugged the flimsy straps off her pale shoulders, and let the teddy drop to her waist.  She bent over and rubbed her breasts against his broad chest, and captured his lips once more.   Mulder was screaming inside.  Their heat was burning him, even as he felt the liquid smoothness of Scully as her passion flowed.  Part of him wanted to stop and analyze the sensations, but whatever possessed him wouldn't allow it. Now, he moaned softly.  Now, come into me now...and suddenly he was Skinner.  He was disoriented as a flood of testosterone surged through him; the single-minded, hunter-seeker mindset demanding gratification.  He clutched his coat around him, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the conflicting sensations. But the razor-edged dichotomies overwhelmed his capacity to integrate them, and he fell unconscious to the tarpaper roof... ...as Skinner filled his woman completely and exploded into her with a great heave.  It was always a powerful experience, he thought, tonight more so than most.  Scully knew him better than he knew himself in some ways, and was very giving of her extraordinary touch.  She stroked him lazily now, and he closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. Long, slow caresses that healed the psychic wounds his job inflicted on him.  He turned to her and pulled her lips down to his in a gentle kiss of adoration. Do you have to leave? she asked quietly. You know I do. Just a little longer... I can't, he sighed, and pulled himself upright and shook his head to clear it.  She watched him reach for his clothes and dress as efficiently as he did everything else.  He folded his tie and slipped it into his coat pocket, and leaned over her for a final kiss.   I love you, Dana. She let his fingers trail out of hers and she found her way under the covers, missing him already. *** Skinner was immediately refreshed by the cool air as he left Scully's apartment building.  He didn't like the back and forth nature of their relationship, but he knew that she would not have more.  Neither of them would ever forget that disastrous night, so long ago, when he'd asked her to marry him.  He had lost himself, then, and he wouldn't risk that happening again.  So he would take what she offered, neither complaining nor pressing, but savoring every moment.  He was walking to his car when he noticed the fire escape stairs of the commercial building next to Scully's had been pulled nearly to the ground. That was odd.  He looked around carefully, up and down the street, and frowned when he spotted what looked like Mulder's car.  A short walk confirmed his suspicions. Returning to the commercial building, he carefully checked the perimeter and tested the fire escape ladder. He climbed with a stealth most big men are incapable of and pulled himself over the wall onto the roof in silence.  He turned a corner and immediately saw the body on the tarpaper roof huddled in a dark wool coat.  His frown deepened when he turned the body over and discovered Mulder.  There was a pulse; he was alive, but very cold.  Inspecting the premises for any clue as to why he was up on this roof, he found the binoculars pointed at Scully's building.  He picked up the field glasses and found that Mulder's position gave him a direct view into Scully's windows. The _expression_ on his face turned ugly, and he was glad for Mulder's sake that the man was unconscious.  He dropped the binoculars into this coat pocket and carefully lifted Mulder onto his shoulder, cursing him the entire way down the fire escape ladder.  Mulder was too groggy to drive, so he put him in his own car and drove him home. He was not gentle with Mulder as he dropped him onto his living room couch. Annnhh... Wake up, Mulder, he said with as much patience as he could muster. Uhhnn, I...no, no, oh god... Mulder's eyes cracked open, and he took in the AD's stern face.   Where am I? he gasped. You're home, Agent Mulder.  But I'd like to know why you were on the roof next to Scully's building, and why I found you unconscious.  He removed the binoculars from his coat and tossed them onto Mulder's stomach.   And what you were doing with those.  He stood up then and folded his thick arms over his chest, a threatening posture that telegraphed his anger more convincingly than words ever could. Mulder opened his eyes fully and looked up at Skinner, and was seized by the need to...watch.  He squeezed his eyes shut, and focused all his concentration on ignoring the prickling sensations that bombarded his body.   I can't explain, he said weakly.   Can't, or won't? Skinner challenged. I can't explain, Mulder said as deliberately as possible. It's been getting worse, ever since I came back from New York. What's been getting worse?  Mulder, I can't help you if you won't talk to me. I think I know what they did to Tom Wister. Skinner was instantly alert.  Wister had been their only hope of decoding the genetic code fragments that were the most important connection to Medusa.  They'd found him, all right, a computer genius turned into a living vegetable by the Smoking Man and Alex Krycek.  Skinner himself had sent Mulder to the hospital to check up on Wister the day after his capture.  The man had retreated so far into himself that he was unable to communicate. Why didn't you say anything? Skinner asked. Didn't know until recently, Mulder gasped.   Some kind of drug cocktail, I think. How did it get into you? Skinner demanded. Don't know.   I'm taking you to the hospital.  Mulder had begun to writhe, and Skinner saw he was losing his grip on his sanity.  He reached down to pull the younger man up but Mulder shook him off. Don't...don't touch me, he screamed, and curled up on himself, trying to avoid the penetrating touch of Scully's lover.   Then get up and walk, but you're going. Skinner's voice was firm, but Mulder could not obey.   No, he muttered, escaping into his own mind. Skinner sighed in frustration.   Mulder, I'm sorry, but believe me when I say this is necessary.  Then he pulled the howling man up by the shirtfront, and planted his fist in his face.  Skinner caught him as he slumped, unconscious, and once again hoisted him up over his shoulder. *** Scully was pleased to hear Skinner's smooth baritone until he told her why he was calling.  On the drive over to Arlington General she reviewed the strange behaviors Mulder had displayed over the past few weeks with new urgency. Twenty minutes later she was striding up to the ICU and conferring with the attending neurologist.   Dr. Scully, I honestly don't know what's causing this, and we don't have the test results back yet. What are the symptoms? she asked. Extreme sensitivity to sound, light, and temperature. Increased visual acuity and pupillary responsiveness.  An almost painful reaction to skin contact.  He refuses physical contact as much as possible. I had to knock him unconscious to get him here, Skinner volunteered apologetically. What tests are you running? Primarily tox screens, with emphasis on PCP, tricyclics, and drugs known to interfere with neurotransmitters; re-uptake inhibitors and the like.  I'll let you know as soon as the results come back. Can I seen him? she asked, eyes fixed on her un_b_link__ing partner. Sure.  He's heavily sedated, though.  Seems to be the only way he can live with whatever it is that's in him. Skinner moved to go with her, but she held him back.  He waited behind the glass wall looking into the ICU as she approached her partner.  Since they'd returned from New York, he'd become very aware of her interactions with Mulder.   He knew there was an undercurrent of feeling between the two of them, but he'd never mentioned it, never confronted her about it.  Now she walked up to him and brushed his hair from his forehead, and the hazel eyes slowly turned to her. Scully. Mulder, what's happening? she said, and he felt the warmth of her concern wash over him. Somehow whatever got into Tom Wister got into me.  He unexpectedly started to laugh softly.   What'd they give me?  I feel very, very mellow. You're on a pretty stiff dose of demerol.  Enough to choke a horse, actually. Scully, Scully, Scully! He smiled lazily, the sedative taking the edge off his obsession, but not dulling it entirely.   You are beautiful, did you know that? Mulder... she warned, even though she knew it was the drug talking. You look especially fetching in plum.  That teddy, Scully, I wanted to rip it off you myself. She didn't see his stupid grin, or consider his drug-addled state.  He had seen.  He had watched her, stalked her, invaded her privacy.  She was aghast at his betrayal.  She collected herself, knowing clearly that this was not the time to confront him. I'll keep an eye on you, too, Mulder, she said flatly, and left the ICU. She took Skinner's arm and led him down the corridor.   I have to get out of here. He let her lead him downstairs and out of the hospital onto the street before pulling her to a halt.   What's this about, Scully? He saw me.  He described my underwear!  He saw us, Walter. Spied on us! I know, he said, trying to calm her.   After I left you, I saw the fire escape ladder on the building next to yours pulled down.  I went up to investigate, and found him unconscious there.  With a pair of high-power binoculars. Scully was livid.   And you didn't think to tell me? I'm telling you now. She pulled her coat tightly around her.   I feel dirty, she said. Skinner pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head.   You have nothing to be ashamed about.  It's his sickness, not yours. She disengaged herself and touched his face.   Of course, she said.   I'll be back here tomorrow morning to follow up. Keep me posted, he said, and turned toward his car.  He didn't mention that he was considering re-opening the Medusa case. *** Back in her apartment, Scully thought about Mulder's affliction as she undressed and once more slid between the cool sheets.  In retrospect, it did explain much of his odd behavior.  The staring, the idle daydreaming, the awkward flushes and perspiring upper lip.  His mind was trying to process waves and waves of pure, unfiltered sensory input. It must have driven him half mad as he tried to escape the assault.  She tried to put herself in his place, to see what he'd seen, to feel what he'd felt.  She could not, but the exercise did cause other, faint stirrings that couldn't be denied. Mulder was always the observer, always so sensitive to nuances of behavior in others.  She knew he felt keenly, and he freely expressed himself in many ways.  But he was closed-mouthed about his own passions.  She didn't know who he saw or how he loved.  It simply wasn't part of their partnership.   But now she looked out the window to the neighboring roof and imagined his eyes on her, watching.  Staring.  She licked her lips as she thought of him touching himself as she touched herself, as Skinner touched her.  It was exciting in an uncomfortably novel way.  How did it make him feel, she wondered...did he come?  Suddenly the thought of a lonely man on a lonely roof vicariously sharing her passion in the cold night air saddened her immensely.  Because she knew what it felt like to be that alone.   Skinner was also having trouble sleeping, but for different reasons.  He was not as disturbed by the thought of another man watching Scully, or himself, as he thought he should be.  Scully was a beautiful, passionate woman, but she was his, body and soul.  He almost smiled at the thought of Mulder losing his mind with jealousy as he watched his long-time partner bend to his will.  It was an unworthy thought, he knew.  One of his best agents was sick, possibly poisoned by that smoking son of a bitch, and all he could think about was his own primitive passion.  No, it wasn't a worthy thought, but it was real.  And he would not disregard the truth of his own nature.         *** The next morning Scully returned to Arlington General as promised.  Mulder was still in the ICU, but looking much better.  They'd cut down the demerol, and he seemed at least nominally in control of himself.   How are you feeling? she said, from the doorway. Her discomfort was obvious.   My...affliction...seems to have faded to a manageable level. She stepped forward, tentatively at first, then more confidently.   The doctors can't seem to pin it down.  The screens are not picking up any known substances.  I'm sending a sample down to the National Center for Toxicological Research.  She didn't tell him she was also sending a sample to the National Institute of Mental Health toxicology lab.         They tell me I can go, for now.  The demerol is doing the trick. You can't stay on that forever, Mulder.  It impairs physical and mental function, and eventually you'll get addicted. I don't think so, Scully.  People with true symptoms, pain, for instance, don't get addicted even to massive doses of morphine.  And I have to tell you, Scully, this is painful.  He smiled to make a joke of it, but she could see he meant it, figuratively if not literally. OK, get dressed and we'll get you out of here. She left and he dressed, almost afraid of contact with his own clothes. But the overwhelming sensory overload had dulled to a low hum with a stable dose of demerol.  He found he was sensitive to the input, but not overwhelmed by it. It was an ideal situation in which to study it. Scully drove him home, and offered to wait for him to shower if he felt well enough to go to the office.  She figured he was probably safer there, where she could watch him.   You think Skinner will re-open the Medusa case? she shouted through the bathroom door at him. He'd better, he shouted back, fascinated by the feel of water droplets pinging against his skin.  It was good she was here, he thought.  It kept him focused. Minutes later he was freshly dressed.  He ran a hand through his damp hair and ushered Scully out.  In the car, she noticed the lack of attention to detail which normally characterized his behavior.  She placed the blame on the demerol, making him looser. Back in their _base_ment office, Mulder went directly to the files and pulled the Medusa folder.  It was fat and it had been well-used over the last few months.  He searched for and found his own report of Tom Wister's condition, and studied it intently.  All the while, Scully was surreptitiously studying him.  He seemed stable enough. Maybe now was a good time to get it off her chest. Mulder, she began, I know you were up on the roof. He looked up from the folder without shame.   I'm sorry, Scully.  I didn't know what I was doing. He started to delve back into the file but Scully wouldn't let it rest.   I need to know, Mulder.  What did you see? She wanted to know, but she wasn't sure she could hear the answer. Mulder leaned back in his battered, Eisenhower-era swivel chair and considered her persistence.  She was slightly flushed, and he could see the guilty fascination in the set of her mouth and the tilt of her head. He was just smoothed out enough from the drug to be willing to tell her.   It drove me there, Scully.  I had to watch everything.  Not just you.  I could stare for hours at the molecules of the air. What did you do on the roof? she pressed. I watched you.  You looked so beautiful, and it was though I could feel everything, every sensation. What did you see? she demanded.   I have to know. Why? What does it matter? he said. It matters. You were stalking me, Mulder. Yes, he said.  He thought about her request.  This might be the only time he'd ever be able to talk to her like this, with a soporific running through his veins that was doing its best to break through his  innate self-censorship blockade. He toyed with the vial of demerol sitting on top of the open Medusa file, and began to speak.   I saw you come home, and turn on the light.  You took your clothes off, and put on that spectacular teddy.  I thought you were expecting company, and I watched you move around the rooms.  You were dancing, Scully.  I didn't know you did that. He stole a quick glance at her.  Her mouth was compressed into a thin line as she steeled herself to his story.  It was surprisingly easy for him to tell, but torture for her to hear. Then you lay on your bed, and... Stop right there! she said, standing and moving nervously around the small office.   I know what I did!  Just shut up Mulder, she pleaded silently. He looked at her in surprise.   No, you don't.  You don't know what you did. What do you mean? He reached out a hand and held her wrist until she stopped trying to back away, and felt a low thrum of sensation.   I was you, Scully.  I knew what it felt like to be you, and I was me, knowing what it felt like to watch.  I was two people at once.  And it was incredible. I feel violated, she said.  He had to know her true feelings. I felt godlike, he whispered. You watched twice, then, you pervert.  Skinner found you the next night.  After I did what you said. Good Catholic girl that she was, she couldn't even say it, he realized with amusement. I couldn't stay away.  I tried.  But it's an obsession, Scully.  Like a magnet drawing me back to that roof. I had to watch again. What did you see? she asked weakly, wanting to hear him say it.   I saw Skinner make love to you.  Thank god for the demerol, he thought.  It was keeping him lucid and in control.  And loose enough to talk to his partner like this.   I...I had wondered, Scully, I won't deny it.  How you were together.  The dynamic.  I saw you both come into your living room, and then you were on each other, and I was overcome with the need to watch.  If I'd had ten eyes, it wouldn't have been enough.  No telescope in the world was strong enough to give me the input I craved. You watched everything? she whispered. I couldn't stop.  But this time, I was you.  I felt everything.  And then suddenly I was him.  It was confusing, disorienting, but also the most powerful sensation I had ever felt. What did you feel? She wanted to know, needed to know. Horrifying pleasure.  But also the most terrible exquisite pain.  The pleasure I experienced through both of you.  The pain was all my own. And then I passed out.  I woke up when Skinner found me. She wanted to go to him and stroke his hair, and murmur words of comfort.  But his tale set her on edge.  The image of his pleasure aroused her, and frighteningly, so did his pain.  He had watched her, and she knew that at some point, she would have to watch him. Without warning, he opened the vial and popped another pill into his mouth.   It's only been two hours since the last one, she warned.   That's too close, Mulder.  You have to be careful. It's the only thing that keeps me from crawling out of my skin. I'm no good if I'm lost in my own head.  An elegant encapsulation of my problem, he thought.  Of course I left out my raging lust for you, and for our boss. Skinner wants an update, and he wants to brief us.  Are you up to it? she asked, looking at her watch. Now or never, he said nonchalantly, praying that he'd be able to survive being in the same room as the two of them. He followed her at a discreet distance. His senses were still unnaturally acute, and he was unwilling to get close enough to catch her scent, or feel her warmth. Scully knocked, and they entered quietly and sat in the leather chairs in front of his desk.  The big man put down the pen he was using to make notes on the yellow pad before him, and looked at Mulder. Are you all right, Agent Mulder? he asked stonily.  There was unfinished business between them, but now was not the time or the place.   I'm filled to the gills with demerol, and it's keeping me in line.  If that's what you mean.   Skinner looked at Scully, who nodded, and he seemed satisfied to accept her evaluation.  He leaned back in his chair, and focused his eyes beyond his agents.  This was going to be complicated.   Tom Wister is still in New York, at the Creedmore Psychiatric Hospital in Queens.  Mulder, you said before that you knew what they'd done to him.  He brought his gaze back to his somewhat stoned agent, and waited. Mulder turned his usually acute powers of observation in on himself.   This drug, if that's what it even is, has a number of unique properties.  It's almost narcotic, in that it causes an irresistible addiction.  It has a self-reinforcing feedback loop to pleasure and pain.  The more you indulge the pleasure, the worse the pain becomes. Do you think that this effect was perpetrated upon Wister, or caused by him? It was a strangely perceptive question for Skinner to have asked, given his cavalier dismissal of Wister as either a suspect or informant in the search for Medusa.  The answer was not readily apparent. Sir, what makes you think that Mulder's problem might have been caused by Wister? Skinner picked up a pen and began to click the end, not missing her use of the honorific.   First, he's computer engineer of considerable, if underground, reputation. Second, the most frustrating element surrounding the supposed existence of Medusa is the uncontrolled transmission of human genome fragments across otherwise secure digital routers.  Third, Krycek and his cronies have some experience with sophisticated hardware and software. Although the nanocytes circulating in Skinner's blood were rarely discussed, Mulder and Scully knew that he lived every day under a virtual death sentence.  Even in his drugged state, Mulder knew where Skinner's line of thought was going. You think Wister developed something that they eventually used against him? Something that also caused the data leaks? Scully inspected the fingernail she'd been nervously chewing.   As analog as life seems, we are basically digital.  Neurons have only two states, on or off.  Do you think it's possible that this effect is some kind of weapon? If it is, it's a damned effective one, Mulder said. Skinner made the only decision possible.   Scully, I want you to continue to follow up on the medical end of this.  I want to know if it's really a drug we need to worry about. He leaned over and got the younger man's attention.   Look, Mulder, I know you're not at the top of your game.  But you're the only one who's been affected, and I need you to assist Scully to the extent of your ability.  Do some thinking about Wister.  You spent more time with him than any of us. When he didn't say anything further, Scully rose.   Mulder? she said, throwing a worried glance at Skinner. Come on. Her slightly loopy partner followed her out of his office, leaving Skinner alone with his thoughts.  He had toyed on and off for months with the idea that Medusa hadn't been real, after all.  But now the possibility of an entirely new class of weaponry almost made the question of its existence secondary.  Medusa, real or not, may have been conveniently exploited to cover up something infinitely more dangerous. He had a personal interest in biodigital weapons.  It was time to go back to New York. _________ To be continued.