[ Marita sighs through her nose, suddenly seeming very tired. She turns her head to watch the fish gather underneath the water ― black lines against deep blue. ]

From what I have learned ― and what I am sure you've gathered yourself, Mr. Mulder ― is that these sort of... intentions are typically based on the prospect of reaching Utopia. [ She pauses, before tearing her eyes away from the river to look at him once more. ] Men playing God in hopes of accomplishing perfection. What's to say this is any different?

[ How many times has she consorted with Gods only to be proven she is nothing but a frail human pawn? More times than she could ever count, more times than she could ever admit. ]