Greg sighed. "Look, Sarah, I just interpret the DNA and report. It's not my fault if the results don't fit into your concept of possible reality."

The brunette frowned, staring at the sheet of paper the blond lab rat had handed her. "But Greg--a wombat?"

"I'm telling you that the hair you found in the Jello mold is from a wombat--yes. And you're welcome."

Sarah ignored the hint, as usual. "What I don't understand is why you even considered testing for... wombatness."

"Well, I eliminated all the suspects, eliminated humans, eliminated all common domestic animals and readily available furs, then moved on to indigenous animals..."

"Wombats aren't indigenous to Nevada. Do we even have one at the zoo?"

Greg held up a finger as if to illuminate a point. "Ah! There's the interesting thing. They have several, and the vet was recently called to check one of them out, because..." He paused, eyebrows raised.

"I haven't had any caffeine for hours, Greg."

"It turned out that the little critter was suffering from over eating--fruit cocktail. Didn't you say that there were obvious empty spaces in what was left of the Jello mold?" Sarah stared at him. "I didn't say it made any sense, I just said it was interesting."

"But what possessed you to even think about wombats?"

"Someone suggested them."

"Grissom?" Greg jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the door that led into the hall. Sarah peered in that direction. The door to the teeny office across the hall was open. A plumpish woman with frizzy hair, wearing a T-shirt that was graced by a cat wearing a bandana, Stetson, and cowboy boots, was currently bent over a keyboard, typing away with a look of almost fierce concentration, mixed with near glee. "No. No, you did not take the suggestion of a wacked-out computer geek Internet smut writer."

"Please, you're talking about my girlfriend, and Mozell prefers the title 'Smut Goddess', thank you. And she was right, wasn't she?"

"But how on earth...?"

"She said that she'd dealt with a lot of weird situations in her writing, and in her experience, wombats were sometimes a good bet." He shrugged. "I was getting nowhere, so I figured it couldn't hurt."

Sarah sighed. "Okay, so it's a wombat hair. Now I have to figure out how the hell wombat hair got into a Jello salad at a Shriners' convention, and how it might tie into the death of the trash talk comic they hired to MC the thing."

*Flash* "Mebbe he was allergic?"

Greg and Sarah both yelped, staring at the slender, leather clad, crazy looking man who was now poking among the test tubes on a nearby table. Greg pointed at him. "Touch those and I'll..." He caught sight of the dagger hanging on Strife's belt. "I'll have Grissom give you such a talking to!"

Strife shrugged. "Threaten me with bein saddled with Sidestep. That'd be almost as effective as threatenin me with havin Gabby tied ta my back fah an extended period."

Sarah frowned. "My name is Si-dle, not... Wait a minute." She squinted suspiciously. "Do you know someone named Mozell McClain?"

"In a manner of speakin. I know wunna her alternates."

"What's...?"

Mozell peeked into the lab. "Oh, m'gawd! Joel Tobeck? I didn't know there was a convention in town."

Strife grinned at her. "Ain't him, kid, though I do get that in some dimensions."

She clasped her hands, eyes wide with joy. "Strife?"

"One an' only."

"Coooool. I knew you'd have to show up here eventually. Too damn much weirdness going on for you not to."

"Wait," said Sarah. "Strife? As in Xena, Warrior Princess?"

Strife shook his head. "Ain't nevah been in Xena. Kinda like ta keep my balls attached, as I'm rathah fond of 'em. All of ya listen up--I'm only gonna explain this once." He pointed at Mozell. "First off, evah considahed tha chance that yer a figment of someone's imagination?"

He talked. When Sarah tried to sidle (I'm sorry, I had to) out, she found her way blocked by what appeared to be a faint shimmer over the door. She noticed that Greg and Mozell were listening closely, nodding occasionally. "You two aren't buying this, are you?"

Mozell shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"But it would mean that you aren't real."

"Define 'real'. I look at it this way," she spread a hand over her bosom, looking smug, "I'm someone's fantasy."

"So," said Strife, "I need all tha help I can get in this. Greg, will ya come help look fah clues, and *cough* sorta... comfort Scribe?"

Mozell hugged Greg. "Aw, my honey-bunny gets a chance to save the day--and get some nookie."

Sarah gaped. "Wait a minute! I happen to know what 'comfort' means to you Internet smut readers. You're sending your boyfriend off to have sex with a strange woman?"

"No, I'm sending him off to have sex with another version of myself. Wait--that qualifies, since I am a strange woman." She put her chin on Greg's shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him.

He kissed her. "That you are, and I thank God for every odd little atom of you. Sure, I'll help any way I can."

"Just remember, stud," Mozell warned, "that version of me is feeling sorta achy-breaky right now." She rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Shave before giving oral sex. Whisker burns on the inner thighs are not fun."

Sarah groaned. "I really didn't need to know about that."

As Strife and Greg disappeared together, Mozell was telling Sarah, "The state of your love life, Side Reaction? I'd think you'd need all the inspiration you could get..."