THE BEAST WITHIN

         Here's a crossover idea that I just couldn't pass up; all thanks to Deep X for his brilliant suggestion. Neither those who despise MSRs or Scully/Other stories are in any serious danger, but I warn you all -- UST is in the air. I authorize full distribution of this story as long as it remains in its original form and I am credited as the author. Any and all feedback would be very much appreciated; send praise or flames to Yahtzee63@aol.com.

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Part One

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         "Mulder, can you move your hand a little bit to the left?"
         "Like this?"
         "Mmm-hmmm, " Scully sighed in satisfaction, shifted slightly beneath the blanket. She lay there blissfully for a few moments, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her head, before he spoke again.
         "You're being very selfish tonight."
         "What?" She lifted herself up to look into Fox Mulder's eyes. "You said it was my turn -- "
         "I said that long before my arm went numb."
         "Listen, if you can think of a more comfortable way to sleep in a crowded coach section, let me know," Dana said, propping herself back up in her seat. Next to her, Fox threw off his corner of the airline blanket to pick up a glass of root beer from the tray.
         "I'm sorry, I know I said it was my turn to loan a shoulder for pillow duty--"
         "I endured that flight all the way to Sacramento," Scully sighed.
         "I guess I'm just a little restless tonight," Fox continued. Dana rolled her eyes towards the air vents above them. I knew this was coming, she thought. Three -- two -- one.
         "I mean, doesn't this case have you intrigued?"
         She smiled to herself before answering. "I admit it's interesting, Mulder, and whoever murdered the casino owner was crafty, but I doubt that anything paranormal is involved."
         He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Scully, in the last four weeks, people throughout Marengo Parish, Louisiana, have seen visions -- apparitions sometimes witnessed by twenty or more people. Thick black fogs that dissipate in light -- the attacks of violent creatures, like wolves, hawks, even a huge man wearing war paint -- ALL of this happening within the month that the Palace Corporation began building a casino over sacred Indian grounds. Coincidence?"
         "Read the book," she said, and won a small smile from him. "Mulder, according to the information you gave me, there's a lot of local superstition about those Indian grounds; I suspect there's not much more at work here than mass hysteria. The stuff of witch hunts, but not of X-Files."
         "Wait -- what voice is that I hear? The same voice who told me the corpse in Ray Soames' grave was, perhaps, an orangutan?"
         Scully scowled at him. "It's also the voice who explained to you that Luther Boggs was truly psychic. I'm not incapable of accepting extreme possibilities any longer, Mulder -- when I see them. I don't here. Not yet."
         "Fair enough, Scully. Fair enough." A wicked grin suddenly spread across Fox's face. "I tell you what; I'll bet you."
         "What?"
         "I'm willing to bet that there's something out of the ordinary behind these sightings, Scully. Something beyond mass hysteria, something truly weird."
         "Hmmm." Dana felt fairly sure of her conclusions, but Mulder had been right about some surprising things. "What's the bet?"
         "Dinner," he said on impulse, feeling -- to his surprise -- a faint blush heat his cheeks.
         "What kind of dinner? Burgers? Barbeque? Or should we go for broke and put a five-course, four-star meal on the line?"
         "I'm game if you are."
         "Deal," she said, sticking out her hand to shake on the bargain, appreciating the soft light in his eyes as he laughed.
         It was a no-lose proposition, really.

         "Wondered when you boys -- um, you guys -- would finally get down here." Sheriff Drexler shot Scully an apologetic glance.
         She waved off the slip. "I'd like to begin by looking at the autopsy reports for the casino owner, Herman Jackson."
         "Well, ma'am, I'm more than happy to do that for you," Drexler said, getting up from behind his old wooden desk. "But I'm afraid they're going to tell you that I've brought you out here on a wild goose chase."
         "What?" Mulder asked, his forehead furrowing.
         "Turns out Jackson killed himself. Nobody could believe it -- stabbing yourself through the chest isn't exactly the most common or efficient way. And Herman didn't seem depressed at all; in fact, the last couple months he'd been on the top of the world, what with construction getting underway on the Palace Casino. But the coroner's sure, and it would explain why there was no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints, all that."
          "I am going to want to reexamine those reports," Scully said, shooting Mulder a look. He raised an eyebrow; obviously he shared her skepticism.
         "Fair enough," Drexler said. "Also guess you'd like to have a look at the scene of the crime."
         "I certainly would," Mulder said, squaring his shoulders. Suicide by a knife blow to the chest? Possible, perhaps, but not likely -- and in the middle of such strange happenings, he was going to be slow to accept that conclusion.

         They traveled to the outskirts of town -- a low, flat area thick with high grasses and trees hung with Spanish moss. Near the town's namesake bayou, the construction for the casino was well underway. Several workers were busily creating a framework from steel girders; still, curious glances met the two agents as they climbed out of the police car and headed towards the small trailer that overlooked the site. They were met halfway by a portly, balding man. "I'm Steve Ritvo. I'm Herman's partner -- I was Herman's partner. How can I help you folks?"
         "I'm Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully. We were hoping to examine the scene for ourselves."
         Ritvo nodded. "Up this way. He was in his office when he did it."
         Mulder quirked an eyebrow. "Mr. Jackson's office was out here?"
         "Herman's main office was in town, but he had a trailer set up out here so he could keep an eye on what was going on. He was a hands-on kind of fella," Drexler said.
         "Any particular reason he might want to keep such close watch over the site?" Scully asked.
         "What do you mean?"
         "I know that these grounds were once a sacred Indian site; I've also heard that several locals don't appreciate the fact that they're being built over."
         "Well, you know how superstitious folks can get. But nobody ever threatened the project, if that's what you're thinking. The people who were wound up about the Indian stuff weren't ever going to do anything about it; they just felt it was going to come back to haunt Herman." Drexler paused and sighed. "Maybe it did at that --"
         Mulder raised an eyebrow as they headed up towards the trailer where Herman Jackson had spent his last minutes. Just as Drexler stripped away the police tape, though, they heard a shout. "Brian! NO!"
         Scully wheeled around just in time to see a construction worker lose his grip on a girder -- he tumbled down, falling into a nest of concrete and steel beams. Somebody screamed; others began hurrying towards him. Without even turning, she yelled, "Call an ambulance!" as she ran to the injured man. It took only a few minutes for her to reach the gathering around the hurt worker, although it seemed like an eternity -- time she used to marshal her racing thoughts. <He may have a back injury, and so shouldn't be moved. His abdomen may have been punctured by one of the steel beams, which could cause a pneumothorax -- surely somebody here will have a first aid kit -->
         At last she shoved her way through the crowd. "Let me through; I'm a doctor!" The burly workers parted, even pushed her forward to Brian's side. Another construction worker had apparently begun caring for him; she shot him a small look of gratitude before shunting him aside to look at the damage herself.
         <What the --> Not only had a severe cut on the injured man's arm been expertly dressed, but the puncture wound through the chest! The construction worker had used a bit of clear plastic to seal the pneumothorax, thus reestablishing the pressure necessary for Brian to breathe. It was a spectacular job. As good as anything she could have done.
         Dana shot the man a look; he shrugged. "I took a first aid course a year ago; how did I do?"
         <First aid course -- RIGHT.> Scully turned her attention back to the semiconscious worker, who moaned and shifted slightly. <He's moving; good sign. His back isn't broken. But he's going to have terrible internal bruising.> "You did well; I'm impressed. This is going to hold him until the ambulance can get here."
         "Way to go, Bailey," one of the other workers said, clapping him on the shoulder.
         Bailey shrugged. "Just glad I could help."
         He stood up, awkward in the gratitude surrounding him. She watched him for a few seconds -- he was a handsome man. Not in any sort of conventional, GQ way; he had a quiet, gentle face, etched with lines that Dana somehow sensed had been born from worry rather than years. He wasn't very tall, yet was muscular in a wiry sort of way. Scully managed to catch his eyes (such amazingly pale blue eyes) once more -- and was startled at what she saw there.
         Fear.
         Fear of her.
         He backed away, still smiling softly at the others who were congratulating him, and vanished back into the crowd. Dana went back to caring for Brian, but she was operating on automatic pilot. Her mind remained focused on Bailey -- whose face, for some reason she could not name, refused to leave her thoughts.

         The scene of Jackson's death had offered up few clues; Mulder and Scully both still doubted the suicide theory, but could find no signs of forced entry or a struggle. After seeing the pictures of Jackson -- a former college linebacker -- Scully found it hard to imagine that he'd let someone swing a knife into his heart without putting up a fight. Still, they had nothing to go on -- until later that night.
         "Mulder? Are you ready?" Scully pounded on the door to his room; it had been his big idea to go to the First Saturday festivities in the first place and she was annoyed that he seemed to be running late. Soak up the local color, he says. Right. He wants to round up as many hallucinating natives as he can. This should be fun. "Mulder? Openup!" The door swung open suddenly, and her fist kept going, socking Mulder in the arm. "Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry --"
         He shook his head, and for the first time she noticed the electric look in his eyes. "Scully, you've GOT to see this." Fox pulled her into his motel room, and gestured at the papers strewn about his bed. "The last four issues of the Marengo Parish Journal. Check out the obits."
         She sat lightly on the corner of the bed, scanning the newsprint as she let one red-lacquered nail trace the columns. Mulder noticed, rather belatedly, that Dana looked beautiful this evening -- she was wearing the emerald green sweater that did as much for her figure as it did for her eyes. Still, one enthusiasm was quickly dampened by another when Scully looked up, realization dawning in her eyes. "There have been eleven suicides in Cassidy Bayou in the last month, Mulder! And this is a town of no more than four thousand people! That would make the suicide rate so many times greater than normal -- "
         "That it almost verges into the paranormal, wouldn't you say?"
         She raised an eyebrow. "Not quite. But it's certainly evidence that something is going on that reaches further than the death of Herman Jackson."
         "And tonight is the first step in finding out what that might be. Ready to do some zydeco dancing?"
         He angled his elbow towards her; Scully took his arm with a smile. "Lead on."

         They never did get a chance to dance, to Dana's great disappointment. Mulder had no trouble finding people who had experienced the strange visions; in fact, there were so many crowding around to tell their stories Scully could hardly catch a glimpse of the festival. She listened along with Mulder for a long time -- but after the first few minutes, Dana was convinced that this was a dead end.
         "It was my mother. Now, she's been dead twelve years! And she was half Chickasaw. You think that's coincidence?"
         "War paint, it musta been. Either it was the ghost of some Indian warrior, or some Indian god maybe because he was huge --"
         "Impossibly thick black fog curling around my feet --"
         "A pack of wolves just sprang out of nowhere --"
         There were no common elements to the stories; even people who had been together at the time had seen different things, a sure sign that these were hallucinations rather than "visions." Mulder's eyes were dull with frustration, but he kept listening -- hoping against all reason that somebody would be able to offer up a concrete version of the legends of the long-dead local tribe.
         Bored and dismayed, Dana walked away from the tiny gathering to look at the dancers enviously -- they spun and twirled by the light of the nearby bonfire. The band kept up a pounding rhythm with the drums and washboard, and she found herself tapping her foot. She shot one last regretful look back at Fox. <Mulder, you would love this.>
         That tune ended, and Scully applauded absently as she looked back at the band. They struck up one of their rare slow songs; she sighed a little as the whirling couples slowed into graceful swaying, silhouettes pairing into single shadows as they drew closer together.
         And there he was.
         Bailey stood near the edge of the gathering, not dancing or drinking, but smiling as he watched the crowd. He hadn't dressed for the occasion, but wore faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt similar to the ones he'd had on earlier. Although many of the other construction workers stood nearby, he seemed to be there alone.
         Almost without deciding to, Dana began to work her way around the edge of the crowd; he didn't see her until she touched his arm. "Bailey, isn't it?"
         He jumped slightly, startled; Bailey drew away slightly, as if he'd like to vanish into the darkness. But something held him there for the crucial moment, and he relaxed. "Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name earlier."
         "Dana Scully. Please call me Dana."
         "If we're using first names, then you should call me David."
         She smiled. "Would you like to dance?" He raised an eyebrow, surprised. Scully was rather surprised herself; she hadn't planned to say that.
         David ran one hand through his dark curly hair before smiling ruefully. "Well, it's been a while, but I think I still remember how."
         Such a warm smile.
         <This is JUST so I can get him talking. Find out more about who he is, how he was able to treat that man so well.>
         <Yeah, right.>
         They moved out into the clearing; he took her carefully in his arms, keeping a polite distance. But not formal -- Bailey did guide her gently to the music, letting his body sway perfectly in tempo with her own.
         Too perfectly -- Dana realized it would be a very good time to start talking. "Umm -- I wanted to compliment you again on what you did today. That was remarkable."
         She felt his body tense, saw again the fear in his pale eyes as they drifted from her own to stare into the darkness. "I'm just glad the doctors say Brian's going to be all right. That's the important thing."
         "True -- still, I have to wonder; you treated him with far more expertise than you could gain from a simple first aid course. I'd almost say you'd have to be a doctor to do so well."
         He met her gaze again, now with an expression that was both bemused and strangely sad. "And why wouldn't you say I'm a doctor?"
         "Most doctors spend their days off golfing."
         David smiled. "I'll have to learn not to underestimate your powers of observation."
         He pulled her a little closer, and for a minute she simply enjoyed the feeling -- the soft woodsy smell of his cologne, the firmness of his hand on her back -- before Dana checked herself. "You didn't answer my question."
         "Actually, you didn't ask me any questions."
         Damn. He was right. "All right, then -- how did you get that medical training?"
         "Direct, aren't you?"
         "So I'm told."
         Bailey leaned back and studied her face carefully for a moment -- and not with the kind of appraisal Scully had been expecting. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and simply met his eyes for a long time.

         Across the clearing, Mulder glanced up from his conversation. What the -- Scully was slow dancing with some guy, no, not just some guy, a construction worker for Pete's sake. Not talking, not laughing, just letting him look deep into those blue eyes of hers. Next to him, an old Cajun woman chuckled. "Somebody poaching on your land?"
         "What? Oh, no --" Dana's able to take care of herself, he thought. If she decides this construction worker is worth a second glance, then I'm sure she's right. No need for me to cut in.
         Of course, if I were to claim the next dance, that wouldn't be out of place at all.

         David seemed to reach a conclusion. "You're in town investigating Herman Jackson's death -- and all the other strange happenings."
         Scully was surprised. "Yes -- you know about this?"
         "In a town this size, I'd have to be deaf not to. But there's something I think you should know."
         "What's that?"
         He shook his head. "Better if I show you; could you and your partner meet me at the construction site early tomorrow morning? About five am?"
         Dana groaned inwardly at the hour, but nodded. "That would be fine. But why the suspense? Do you know who really killed Herman Jackson?"
         "Herman Jackson killed himself, I believe. But I think I have a possible explanation why. I need your help to be sure."
         <Why am I listening to this guy? What could he know? None of this adds up --> "You are a doctor, aren't you?" She had no idea why she'd asked that in particular; she had a thousand questions running through her mind.
         He sighed. "Yes. I'm a doctor. But years ago a child died on my operating table and, in guilt and grief, I put down my scalpel and vowed never to risk another human life again."
         Scully stared at him in shock. "You can't be serious."
         "I'm not," he grinned. "My past is my own business, Dana. I promise you that it has nothing to do with the strange events in Cassidy Bayou. Fair enough?"
         "I believe you," Scully said, surprising herself again.
         Bailey took her wrist; her heart, traitorous as always, did a little flip before she realized he was only tilting her watch towards him to check the hour. "It's late. If we're meeting at five, I should get some sleep."
         "Same here," Dana agreed, realizing only then that the slow song had stopped a moment before; even as David smiled farewell, the band swung back into pounding force. She squeezed his hand briefly before letting it drop, letting him vanish back into the darkness.
         "Scully? How about that dance?"
         She whirled to see Fox behind her, smiling a little sheepishly. "Oh, Mulder, I'd love to -- but I've got to lift the fingerprints from my watch!"
         Dana held her arm out carefully (Mulder had a momentary vision of a Beatlemania-crazed teenager, lifting up the hand that had touched Paul McCartney and swearing never to wash it again) as she dashed from the festival lights towards their motel and her equipment.
         "Well, at least you're original, Scully," he sighed, but he was smiling. He'd been crazy to think she was developing a crush on the construction worker -- obviously she suspected him of something. And he'd have other chances to ask her to dance.
         Like after he bought her that dinner.
         Mulder rolled his eyes as he set out from the festival, taking the dusty back road to town. At this point, it looked as if Scully was right -- while the people he'd talked to were sane, ordinary people, they were clearly hallucinating. He'd played with the idea of government experiments -- tampered water? Media manipulation? -- but this situation just didn't have that feel to it. Still, he mused as he wandered through the darkness, there is something odd going on here.
         But if I can't prove it to Scully, I'm still going to be out a couple hundred bucks. Fox shook his head ruefully, then squinted towards the town lights.
         When suddenly the darkness changed.
         The night took form, substance, curled around his feet, his legs, his chest. Mulder opened his mouth to scream, then clamped it shut, seized by the sudden terrible fear that the darkness would twist in through his mouth down into his gut. Blacker than blackness, heavier than air, the fog congealed in the night, hanging shapelessly in front of him.
         And then it took shape.
         The fog seemed to be dissipating -- then Fox realized it was merely breaking into patterns of light and shadow. Patterns that formed a face.
         His own.
         Mulder stared into his own eyes, his own face, all of it the unearthly grey of the smoke. The figure of Mulder reached out with one unearthly hand even as Mulder himself tried to grasp the cloud -- he caught one glimpse of the expression in those eyes --
         It was gone.
         Fox stepped back in total shock; once again he was alone, standing on a perfectly normal dirt road on a perfectly normal night. But there was nothing normal about him. There, in the middle of the darkness, Mulder felt something beyond despair crush him, choke him. Unable to stop himself, Fox crumpled to his knees and began to weep.

         "Come on, dammit," Scully cursed at the computer. Sure, she could have waited until morning to fax the prints out to the Bureau system; since she honestly didn't suspect David Bailey to be part of any wrongdoing, that would actually have made a lot more sense.But instead, here she sat, wasting precious sleep, tapping her nails against the desk. Why am I so curious about this man? she wondered. I trust him -- I almost can't believe how quickly I've come to trust him -- but whatever he's hiding is something important. I'm sure of it.
         Dana jumped as the screen bloomed into color and chirped; the ID had come through. She leaned forward to read -- after a second, her jaw dropped.
         "What the hell?" The words before her made perfect sense, but they couldn't possibly be true.
         "Scully?"
         So engrossed was she in the data before her that it took a moment for Mulder's muffled voice to register. As she pulled herself away from the desk to open the door, she called, "Mulder, you're not going to believe who this guy is -- Oh, God!"
         Mulder was slumped against the doorjamb, covered in dust. He was hunched over, hugging himself and trembling; as Dana reached out her hand, he clutched her to him -- only then did she realize he was crying. "Mulder, what happened?"
         "Scully -- I saw myself."
         "What?" She maneuvered him to the bed so they could sit -- he'd only barely been supporting his own weight, and she was afraid he would collapse. He huddled next to her, as shaken as she had ever seen him.
         "Walking home, Scully -- the night changed. It took form. I saw myself before my own eyes and it was so sad -- I can't explain why, but what I saw in my face, Scully -- nothing there but pain --"
         He choked back a sob, buried his face in her shoulder. Dana held Fox close, stroked his dark hair, made wordless comforting noises as he dissolved into tears yet again. Meanwhile, her thoughts were racing.
         Mulder was too distraught to realize it, but he'd obviously suffered another of the hallucinations that had been endemic in Marengo Parish for a month. This was troubling -- Mulder was not suffering from any form of hysteria. So what was causing the hallucinations? Who was behind it? Why single out her partner? And the suicides -- Oh, God.
         Scully pulled Mulder yet closer, resolving not to let him out of her sight for the rest of the evening. The visions could cause suicidal despair -- she could not let that happen to Fox. She'd get to the bottom of this.
         With the help of the man that she now knew was not named David Bailey.

         He was drowning.
         Churning water, blacker than night and colder than ice, surrounded them, tossed them violently against one another for a split second before they lost one another again.
         Scully fought the undertow, swimming desperately with all the strength in her exhausted arms. She could stay afloat -- she could fight the waters as long as she had to, no matter what it took out of her, she knew that.
         But Mulder couldn't. Even as she reached out to clutch at his arm, he was slipping away from her, slipping into the endless dark --

         Scully awoke with a start. Her arm was outstretched against the still-warm expanse of blanket beside her. Confused, still panicked from her dream, she called out, "Mulder?"
         "I'm here," he said wearily. She sat up, peering through the dim light. Fox was sitting in the chair by the window, his head drooping forward into one hand.
         "Are you all right?"
         "Depends on how you define 'all right.' Also, I'm more than a little curious -- " He finally looked at her, with a very welcome glint in his eyes -- "Um, how did I get here?"
         Scully cocked an eyebrow. "Mulder -- what do you remember?"
         "I remember the festival -- we were asking around, I wasn't really getting anywhere. You left early, I came later. While walking back -- I saw this vision -"
         Fox's voice was suddenly shaky again. Dana quickly slid over to the other side of the bed and took his hand. "You saw a vision of yourself. You told me that much."
         "I don't remember much after that. But I'm going to remember that image for the rest of my life, Scully. I saw myself. Saw through myself. And there was nothing there. Only anguish. Emptiness. As if everything I thought I stood for, everything I've ever done, was dust and ashes. I wanted desperately to prove that image wrong -- to find some meaning, any meaning to my life that would blot out that hollowness." He was silent for a moment. "Looks like I came here."
         When she spoke again, Dana found she could only whisper. "You realize that what happened to you must be the same thing that happened to the eleven suicides in this parish. They must also have had some kind of vision that gave them the same despair." He nodded, but stayed silent. "Mulder -- be honest with me. You aren't in any danger?"
         "Of committing suicide? No -- maybe last night, if I hadn't found you -- I don't know, Scully. I was out of my mind. But now I just feel tired as hell." Mulder got to his feet and stretched, grimacing. "Maybe we should try to get back to sleep."
         Dana glanced at the bedside clock; it read 4:13. "I think you should definitely try to get some more rest, Mulder. But I'm afraid I have an appointment to keep."
         "You have to be kidding."
         "No -- remember the man from the construction site, David Bailey? He has a few ideas about what's going on here -- and I'm going to see what he can prove."
         "No way, Scully," Mulder's voice was no longer uneven. "If this guy's trying to lure you out to the construction site at 5 am, I can tell you what ideas he has."
         "Don't you trust my judgment at all? I know how it sounds. But I also know that this guy -- " Dana paused.
         "What?"
         "That this guy knows something he's been holding back from us. And I know he isn't out to hurt me." Scully was telling the truth -- to a point. What she wasn't telling Mulder was the result of her computer search the previous evening. She didn't yet know the full story, but she did know that "David Bailey" had a very strange history. Perhaps it was something Mulder needed to know, and she felt strangely guilty about holding back.
         Why guilt? she asked herself. But she understood the answer; she wasn't withholding the full truth from Mulder out of any sense of caution, or concern for his still-shaky condition. She had decided to remain silent out of loyalty to another man -- a man she'd known less than a day, a man she knew had lied to her. And she couldn't even begin to explain why.
         Mulder ran his hand through his hair, trying to muster up enough strength to argue with her. "At least let me come with you."
         "Mulder -- it's okay. Really. Get some rest; we need to find out more about these suicides, and that's going to mean a lot of interviews later on. Save your strength, all right?"
         He looked at her for a long moment, sensing she wasn't telling him everything. But his trust in her won out; he nodded and climbed back onto the bed. Before he lay down, though, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out Scully's gun. "Take this with you."
         She hesitated only a second before accepting the weapon. "You're right, Mulder. Better safe than sorry."
         What little she now knew about David was strange enough. Could she even guess at what she didn't know?

         "You came."
         "I considered staying in bed. But I do have some questions that need to be answered -- and you're the one with the answers." Scully looked out over the construction site, which was shrouded from the dawn light by early morning mist. The girders and beams were rendered mysterious, almost lovely, castlelike here in the middle of tall trees hung with Spanish moss. She tried to envision a casino here, all plastic and glitz, and shuddered. Local people might have their reasons for spreading strange rumors; Scully knew she'd try just about anything to stop something like this from ruining her home.
         "Where's your partner?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "He didn't like the idea of touring a swamp at 5 am?"
         "Last night Mulder had one of the visions. It shook him -- it frightened him badly, and we've seen enough in our time together that he doesn't frighten easily. He's recuperating. And I am going to get to the bottom of this before this goes any further."
         David nodded, taking that in. He was sitting on the stump of a tree that had been felled in what would, eventually, become the parking lot. He was wearing a faded denim shirt and a windbreaker that was far too thin for the midmorning chill. Still, he seemed at ease -- more so than he had ever been with her.
         "You realize what a strange place this is to be building a casino, don't you?" He motioned to her to follow him as he walked towards the center of the construction site.
         She fell into step beside him. "It did strike me as being a little odd; this town isn't nearly large enough to support that kind of industry."
         David shook his head impatiently. "They'll attract gamblers from New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, even Texas. This town may be small, but it's near the right highways. Plenty of small towns around here have made fortunes with the recent casino boom -- this place is actually better situated than most. But that's not what I was talking about."
         "You were talking about the sacred Indian grounds." Scully raised one eyebrow.
         "Wrong again. I mean the land itself. We're on a bayou -- on the edge of the wetlands. This land isn't particularly stable; it's not a place you'd normally pick for a large structure like this."
         "You're right; I don't know why I didn't think of that before. But why does it matter?"
         David stepped to the edge of one of the mobile platforms in the heart of the site; he climbed atop it and lent her a hand to pull her up. Scully stepped beside him and followed him to the edge -- she couldn't help noticing that he didn't let go of her hand. Or that she didn't pull it away.
         Beneath them was a pit, deeper and darker than she could have imagined. A metal screen had been placed perhaps 30 feet down; however, the digging had gone far deeper. She couldn't even see the bottom, and for a moment she was overcome by vertigo. Scully glanced away and clutched David's hand a little tighter. "That's not normal, is it?"
         "No. I've done a lot of this kind of work over the past few years; I can tell you that there are limits to how deeply you're supposed to dig. Especially in areas like this one, where you have underground waterways, natural gas deposits, and that kind of thing. They're filling in with concrete, in an attempt to stabilize the structure. But they're also forcing something out."
         "Natural gas deposits -- " Scully's mind began turning that over. "You think that they hit a vein. Not of natural gas, but of something else. Some kind of vapor that's causing these hallucinations."
         "You've got it. I haven't got the equipment or lab access to test for myself, but you do."
         "That would explain a lot," she agreed.
         "It explains everything, I think. The strange visions, the multiple suicides -- "
         Dana interrupted him. "It doesn't explain you."
         "Do I have to explain?" David smiled gently. The man was good at misdirection, she had to admit that. But not quite good enough.
         "I have uncovered a few facts that could stand some explanation. For instance, David Bailey isn't your real name."
         "Yes, that's true. But I have my own reasons for keeping my real name to myself."
         "You may keep it a secret from most people you meet -- but not from an FBI agent. Your name is David Bruce Banner." He stepped back from her, dropping her hand in shock. She ignored that.
         "You are, or were, a physician and scientist. You were noted for your studies into the effect of adrenalin on human strength and endurance, particularly in times of severe crisis. At the height of your career, you lost your wife -- " Her voice softened slightly over those words; the file had said she died years before, but the pain in David's eyes was immediate -- as if she'd just told him for the first time. "After that loss, you grew somewhat reclusive. You were later reported dead -- a report that seems to be in error."
         David Banner turned away from her, folding his hands across his chest. "How did you find out?"
         "Your fingerprints on my watch."
         "Serves me right for flirting with you," he sighed.
         "Why did you let people think you were dead? Why are you here?"
         "I have my reasons. And they aren't connected to this. I told you that once before -- don't you believe me?"
         He glanced back over one shoulder; the pleading in his eyes was unfeigned. This man longed for her belief -- for her trust. It was an expression she was familiar with; her heart twisted at the sight. "I do believe you. But why can't you trust me with the truth?"
         David turned back towards her; his pale blue eyes were troubled. He wants to tell me, she realized. He's tired of carrying this secret around -- but he's so unsure --
         Suddenly, the mobile platform jerked beneath them. She gasped as she and David were thrown off their feet, falling onto the rapidly tilting surface of the platform. "What's happening?"
         David's face was horrorstricken. "Someone's at the controls -- they're going to drop us -- "
         And the platform tilted further, sliding them both down irrevocably towards the edge -- and the seemingly bottomless pit beneath them. Scully scrambled against its smooth metal surface, desperately trying to find purchase -- and failing.
         "No!" She and David both cried out as they slid past the edge and fell towards that vast darkness --
         They hit the screen hard. Scully felt the metal mesh bite into her skin for a moment as the screen buckled beneath her, then snapped her back up into the air. She didn't bounce far, though, and hit the screen again with enough force to cut the skin of her hands. Next to her, she heard David groan with pain. The screen quivered with the force of their fall -- but it held.
         Barely.
          "Normally, I approve of employees that come in early, but this is a little much." Steve Ritvo's voice rang out above them, and echoed back from the cavernous depths below.
          Scully found the courage to roll over; the screen trembled again, but held as she reached under her sweater and pulled out her gun. A useless maneuver -- Ritvo was nowhere near the edges of this pit. Damn the gun, she thought; why didn't I bring the phone?
         "Ritvo!" David shouted. "What the hell are you trying to do?"
         "The same thing everyone's trying to do, Bailey. Make a profit. When I'm done here, this whole town's going to be richer than anyone ever imagined."
         "And you'll be the richest of all!" David's face was fiercely angry -- but then Dana saw him attempting to control that rage.
         She felt no need to control her own. "Eleven people are dead, Mr. Ritvo. More could die before you're done. That's more important than your damn profits."
         "Depends on your point of view, Agent Scully. And by the way, I think you've lost count. I think we're at thirteen people now -- "
         Suddenly, another of the machines above them whirred into life; Scully glanced around desperately, trying to figure out which of the machines had been turned on --
         And then it became all too clear, as a metal spout above them began to tilt downward. She looked over at David. "That would be -- "
         "The concrete mixer. This screen's only protective for construction -- it's not going to hold long against that weight -- "
         And they looked up as one, helplessly, as the heavy grey fluid tumbled down toward them. Scully rolled to her left to avoid being smothered in the stuff; she slid against David's side just as the concrete struck the screen. As it oozed slowly through the mesh, spreading gradually toward them, the screen began shaking.
         Scully forced herself to rise to her knees, to ignore the buckling of the thin surface beneath her. She tried digging her fingers into the earth beside them -- but it was so moist, so loose, that any handhold she tried to gouge out immediately disintegrated. Dana looked up again at the thirty-foot walls around them. "David! What can we do? David - "
         She looked back at her companion. She expected him to be doing what she was doing -- or else frozen in panic, looking at the weight of the concrete warping their screen.
         David Banner was on his feet. His whole being shook with terror and rage.
         And as always --
          When David Banner was angry or frightened --
         A startling transformation began.

          Scully had been shot at more times than she could count. People had attempted to stab and strangle her. She'd seen things horrible beyond human comprehension -- and she had always, always managed to keep herself together. Dana had long been proud of the fact that she wasn't inclined to panic.
         But this, this -- as David Banner's body shook and twisted, terror froze her, and smothered the screams welling up within her. She was on her feet, ignoring the depths beneath her, clawing at the soft earth around her even more desperately than before, in her wild effort to get away from this man, and whatever was happening to him.
         She knew it was impossible, but he was growing. Larger, taller, bulkier -- muscles unlike anything she'd ever seen were ripping through the denim shirt and windbreaker as if they were made of paper. And his skin was darkening -- turning green.
         Green?
         He screamed with the pain of it -- it didn't take much imagination to realize how agonizing this had to be. As he grew, bigger and bigger, the screams deepened into roars. Finally, a giant stood there in the shreds of David's clothing -- then wheeled around to look at her.
         Dana pushed herself back into a corner, ignoring the fact that the screen's bracketing was beginning to slip free of the earth. This huge creature, this monster, was coming straight at her --
         The creature grabbed her, lifting her as though she were weightless. He flung her over his back, still hanging on to one of her arms; her shoulder cracked with the force of it, and she finally did scream from pain.
         He -- it -- ignored her cry, and plunged his other arm into the earthen wall. His fist went in far deeper than her feebler efforts had been able to -- and then his foot --
         And then the screen gave way. Beneath her, Scully watched their fragile flooring drop away into the impenetrable darkness; a sudden wave of vertigo nauseated her, but not beyond the reach of reason.
         This creature, whoever or whatever he might be, had saved them. She hadn't had the strength to get an adequate handhold in the soil around them, but he had. And he was probably strong enough to hold them there forever.
         Maybe it would be better to get up earlier, she realized, and slipped her free hand around his neck; he grunted -- approval? Must have been, since he then released the arm he had been clutching. Her shoulder still jabbed with pain, but she managed to slide her other hand around his neck as well, and curve her legs around his waist.
         And with that, the creature began to climb, thrusting each arm elbow deep in the earth, heading upwards with unbelievable speed. In only a couple of seconds, they'd scaled the walls of the pit; he leapt over the edge with another roar.
         Scully let go of him and dropped gratefully to the ground; she knelt there for a moment, weak with relief and amazement. But the creature's wrath was unabated. He screamed out again, so loudly she had to clap her hands over her ringing ears. He ran across the edge of the pit towards the concrete mixer, which was still pouring forth into the pit, and threw himself against its side. The huge mixer shook back and forth with the force of the blow, and smoke and sparks billowed out into the air.
         "Don't! It's going to explode!" Dana shouted. But the creature either did not hear her or could not understand her -- or just didn't care. She scrambled to her feet and began to run away; almost automatically, she scanned the horizon and saw a car -- no doubt Ritvo's -- headed back towards town. He was far enough from them that he probably hadn't seen any of this. She almost envied him.
         The creature flung himself against the mixer again; with a grinding of gears and scraping of metal, it tilted over farther, too far, and slid into the opening of the pit. Scully turned back just in time to see it tumble down, and to hear the creature's roar of triumph.
         It hit the bottom only a second or two later -- the force of the explosion roared up toward them hard enough to knock her off her feet. She reached out to break her fall and landed again on her injured hand; her arm gave way and she landed face-down in the dirt. Shards of metal and glass rained through the air; Dana tried to cover her head to protect herself from the shrapnel and the smoke.
         After a moment, the booming echoes from down in the pit subsided. Scully coughed, and pushed herself up on her good hand.
         Across the pit, the creature stood, gazing down at the still-flaming destruction beneath him. He raised his arms in the air as if in triumph, and roared once more.
         But then he went quiet. His body began to shake again -- as if from exhaustion. The creature stumbled into the nearby underbrush, then sank down to the earth, curling in on himself, almost in a fetal position.
         For a moment, Scully considered running back to the rental car to report this to Mulder as quickly as possible. Then she remembered the last expression she'd been able to read in David Banner's eyes.
         He'd pleaded for her understanding.
          And this, she desperately wanted to understand.

         The vision echoed within him -- within the endless emptiness inside. Mulder shook his head, trying to clear his mind. But the previous evening's nightmare still shook him.
         He was headed to the offices of the Marengo Parish Journal; they'd have the background information he needed on all the suicides. After last night, Mulder knew what had happened to them; this investigation wasn't really that crucial.
         But he needed something to do, something to concentrate on to keep from worrying about Scully -- or wondering about that ghostly vision.
         More than that, he wanted to know if any common thread bound them together -- any physical trait, any spiritual thread. To know if he shared anything with the dead.
         "Excuse me -- sir? You're the FBI agent, right?" Fox turned to see an older man, square-faced and grey haired. He held a tape recorder in one hand.
         "Are you with the local paper?"
         "No, sir -- though you have guessed my profession correctly. My name is Jack Magee; I write for the National Inquisitor."
         The tabloid's name would have produced groans from most FBI agents; Mulder had gotten too many good tips from the Inquisitor to react that way. "The odd events in town attracted your attention?"
         "You might say that." An eager gleam was in Magee's eyes now, and he was no longer looking at Mulder -- he almost looked through him. "I think these strange stories might be connected to the creature I hunt."
         "The creature?" Mulder's hopes of a constructive conversation began to fade.
         "Perhaps you've read about the Incredible Hulk?"
         "Ah. Yes. The Hulk." It was all Fox could do not to roll his eyes. Of all the tabloid stories he'd ever read, the Hulk was the one he was least able to believe, even at his most credulous. A marauding killer giant, 7 feet tall and green, who somehow managed to get around the country without being spotted -- Mulder had always assumed it was a creation of the Inquisitor's editors, designed to pump up sales. But here was the reporter -- obviously a true believer.
          "I keep up with local papers, wire reports, that kind of thing -- and I couldn't help but wonder if the giant some people reported seeing might not be the Hulk. Have you found anything that might support that?"
         Fox opened his mouth, uncertain of what to say, and Magee caught the look in his eye. "You think I'm a nut. Everyone does -- but the Hulk is real, I tell you. It's not like I'm making up something ridiculous, like that Flukeman thing -- "
         Mulder sighed. Magee didn't notice.
         "Every report of the Hulk is based in real fact. There's something to it -- and if there's something here, I want to find it. Can't you help me?"
         Something in the older man's eyes reminded Fox of his own lonelier moments, and he found it in himself to smile reassuringly, not mockingly. "I don't think you're crazy, sir. But my personal experience on the case -- I feel pretty safe telling you that the Hulk isn't behind all this. I'm not at liberty to discuss why I know that -- but I assure you it's true."
         Magee studied Mulder for a moment, then nodded. "Back to the search, I guess. Thanks for hearing me out."
         Mulder smiled again and watched the reporter trudge back to his old car, all alone, shabby jacket on his shoulders. "I hope I don't end up like that," he whispered.
         "Agent Mulder!" Fox whirled around to see Sheriff Drexler running up behind him. "We just got an anonymous call in -- somebody said there's been an accident at the construction site."
         Mulder stood shock still for only a moment, taking it in.
         "Scully -- "

         David groaned and turned over, clutching at the jacket over his shoulders. After another moment, the jacket's presence registered. He opened his eyes slowly.
         Scully sat next to him, her knees drawn up to her chest. She'd covered him in a parka she'd found on the site, a brilliant, blinding orange that made his head hurt even more than it already did.
         His memories, as always, were foggy. But he knew what had happened, and knew that Dana Scully had seen it all.
         "How long?"
         "It's been about 20 minutes since your -- transformation." Her voice was remarkably even; others had discovered his secret over the years, but rarely had anyone accepted it with such calm.
         "You see why I've dropped out of sight. Why I have to keep on the move."
         "I see why you think it's necessary. But, David -- what happened to you? When did this begin?"
         David pushed himself up to sit beside her, tugging on the jacket to ward off the morning chill. As usual, the shirt and jeans he'd had on earlier were in shreds. "I guess it really all began after my wife died. She died in a car accident, but -- she didn't die in the wreck itself. She wasn't even that badly hurt." He swallowed hard, but kept going. "She was trapped in the burning car. And I was there and I couldn't help her. I couldn't get her free. She died right in front of me."
         Scully touched his shoulder, squeezed it gently. He registered her gesture, but did not turn to face her. "My work made it all so ironic. I studied adrenalin and the emergency response in humans. Documented case after case where a mother or child or husband was able to do something beyond their strength when an emergency demanded it. And when I found myself in the same situation -- nothing happened. I was helpless."
         "Those responses can't be willed, or predicted. You know that. You can't blame yourself."
         "It wasn't guilt that drove me, so much as the anger. I wanted to know why, dammit. I wanted to know what it took to unlock that power. So I began experimenting -- and found out a hell of a lot more than I wanted to know."
         "What did you do?"
         "I was working with gamma radiation -- during one experiment, I was accidentally overdosed. Shortly afterward, this all began."
         Scully's jaw dropped in disbelief. "But -- David, there's no scientific basis for that! Gamma radiation doesn't have the capability to do this -- the scientific literature -- "
         "I'm familiar with the scientific literature, Dana. I wrote a lot of it myself. I know there's no reason for it to have that effect; however, that's the only abnormal factor that could possibly account for it. And neither of us can deny that what happens to me is real -- whether science can explain it or not."
         Dana sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "You can't control it, can you?"
         David dropped his face into his hands. "No. That's the hell of it. If I could -- the good I could do, Dana! Or I could just choose not to have it happen at all -- I could go back to my life, my studies. But it happens of its own accord whenever I get angry or scared. And I can't control what he does."
         "He?" Scully raised an eyebrow.
         "The beast within me. He's never hurt anyone, I don't think. He's never done anything I'd be ashamed to admit to. But I know that he isn't me -- " David finally looked up, looked at Dana. The grief and loneliness in his eyes moved her, and she gathered him gently into her arms. He embraced her, whispering, "I keep moving. I keep trying to learn to control him -- but until I do, I have to keep moving. I can't take the risk of being close to anyone for too long, because I never know when he will hurt someone. When he will do something I would never do. When he finally overwhelms me."
         They sat there like that for a long time, until the intensity of their embrace grew too much for him; he pulled away quickly and awkwardly, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I deal with this problem a lot," David said, gesturing towards the ripped jeans. "I hid a duffle bag in the storage shed over there -- would you mind getting it for me? I'm still a little unsteady."
         Scully accepted the errand, willing to give him the space he so desperately needed. But his terrible burden echoed within her as she walked, as immediate as it had been as she held him in her arms.

         "Hell, man, don't kill us all!" Drexler shouted as Mulder took another curve at 70 miles per hour. Their car spun on the gravel road, but managed to stay on track.
         Mulder was too busy cursing himself to listen to the sheriff's protests.
         They finally skidded up to the site -- a few workmen, arriving for the early shift, were gathered around the center of the construction site. As Mulder ran from the car, he saw Steve Ritvo gesturing towards Drexler. "Sheriff, I'm glad you're here -- I was just about to call you."
         "Got a call already -- anonymous. Said there was an accident out here."
         "Same guy called me," Ritvo said gravely. "He said that the FBI agent had gotten too curious -- "
         "Too curious for you." Everyone turned to see Scully stepping out from behind one of the storage sheds, David Bailey by her side. Bailey was pale and drawn, but Scully was flushed with anger.
         Ritvo started, as if to run, but Mulder grabbed his arm. "Scully, are you okay?"
         "I'm fine, Mulder. No thanks to him. David brought me out here to look at the site -- when he caught us at it, Ritvo tried to kill us."
         Drexler turned to Ritvo in amazement. "Steve -- is this true?"
         "I'm not saying anything until I talk to my attorney," Ritvo muttered.
         Mulder pushed Ritvo forward. "Cuff him, Drexler." He jogged over to Scully's side, touched her bruised cheek. "You're sure you're all right?"
         "A few cuts here and there. David and I should probably visit a doctor. Ritvo tried to dump us down one of the shafts."
         "Why?"
         "He dug too deep, Mulder, in an area filled with underground chambers and deposits. Ritvo hit a vein of something -- some kind of vapor that's caused hallucinations. He knew it was dangerous and didn't stop, even when people began to die."
         Mulder crossed his arms and looked at her carefully. "Some kind of vapor?"
         "We'll have to test, but I think that's what we'll find."
         "You're telling me my profound vision of my innermost soul was just -- swamp gas?"
         Scully sighed. "I wish I had a more poetic explanation, Mulder -- but it's the truth. I suspect what came over you was a phenomenon called autoscopic psychosis - - the subject often sees an image of himself, accompanied by feelings of grief and pain. It can be triggered by a number of factors -- and I suspect exposure to these fumes is one of them."
         Fox shook his head. "I just don't know, Scully -- it seems as if there was something more going on here -- "
         He didn't notice David Bailey go tense, or see those pale blue eyes fix on Scully as she began to speak again. "That's all there is, Mulder. Believe me."
         Had Mulder's attention not been so fixed upon his partner, he would have seen David Bailey breathe a deep sigh of relief.

         "Mulder, this is too much," Scully protested. But he waived on the maitre'd, who proceeded to open the champagne.
         "A deal's a deal, Scully. We made a bet -- and the events in Cassidy Bayou turned out to caused by chemical fumes, nothing more. And I did say that if the case didn't have any paranormal aspects, I'd spring for the dinner."
         Mulder had done it up in style -- they were at an exclusive restaurant, at the table with the view of the river. Scully would have enjoyed herself a lot more if not for the guilt. There had been more to the case in Cassidy Bayou -- but she couldn't tell Mulder about it.
         She had wanted to, had begged David to consider it when they said goodbye. "You can trust Mulder, David. He specializes in understanding things almost beyond understanding. He's well informed about alternative medical treatments and practices -- if anybody could find answers for you, he could."
         David had only shaken his head. "Dana, nobody is better informed about my condition than I am. I stay current -- I read, I listen. But there's no answers out there for me, not yet. And until I can find those answers, I have to keep moving."
         "I wish it wasn't like this for you," she had whispered.
         He tugged his dark sailor's coat around him, slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. "So do I. Maybe, someday, things will be different -- "
         She would never forget the look in his eyes as he leaned forward and quickly kissed her goodbye; when David turned to walk away, into the unknown, Scully thought she had never seen anyone so desperately alone.
         "Scully -- are you okay?"
         She started, brought back to the here and now by Mulder's voice. He was frowning slightly. "You were far away for a second there. You seemed sad -- "
         "Not sad, Mulder. Just considering."
         "Considering what?"
         "Your vision."
         Fox groaned. "You mean my psychotic episode."
         "I think it still has meaning, Mulder. That emptiness you confronted wasn't real -- because we have each other. What happened in Cassidy Bayou has made me realize how lucky we are -- how lucky I am, that you're in my life; maybe I needed to remember that."
         That much, at least, was true. And she saw that truth reflected in his eyes as he lifted the champagne glass in a wordless salute.