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cultureisdarkbeer · 3 years

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In Season 8, Mulder returned to a world turned upside down. This is the story of how he worked his way back into Scully's arms.

*NEW* Chapter 4 - Does Scully want to be more than friends with Mulder? Does Mulder have the courage to ask? *Reader Discretion Advised*

Read Full Chapter Here

“Thank you for driving me home,” Scully said, as they pulled onto the street and towards her apartment.

Mulder twisted his hand around the faux leather of the steering wheel. “Thank you for attending my therapy session. What did you two talk about in there?” He tried to sound cool, but his eagerness was not lost on Scully.

“Reviewed different techniques, how I could be more supportive.”

Mulder tilted his head. “Sometimes, the flashbacks, nightmares, and anxiety attacks seemed to be subsiding. Almost as if my mental trauma is healing with my physical wounds. Then others, it is like I just got off the ship.”

“No one should expect you to heal at any pace, Mulder. He said it should take at least three months before you might begin to feel progress.. but Mulder, however long it takes, or even if you always have certain anxieties, depression, that’s okay. There is no right and wrong.”

Mulder didn’t know how to respond so he simply nodded. If only it was as simple as time passing or even the acceptance that time couldn’t be rewound, but there was more. A lot more.

The rest of the drive was met with a comfortable silence. It was so quiet he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. A quick glance in her direction revealed her eyes were closed, then, as if feeling his gaze, she opened them and a small smile curved her lips. She reached out and grasped his hand before once again closing her eyes. Did he just hear her sigh? Mulder considered how Scully seemed more willing than ever to follow him. Now, she seemed invested, even with her interest in helping him work through his trauma. It couldn’t be that her interest in helping him was only in relation to their shared past, their friendship. So many weeks had passed for her and so much of her life he had missed. Did he have a right to demand she make a choice? Did he have it in him to take that leap of faith and put himself out there? Was he just going to sit there and let another night go by without even asking? Just let her walk into that apartment without saying anything?

When they pulled up to Scully’s apartment, Mulder gathered up some courage and asked, “Do you still have my files on your laptop? When I was searching through the archives today I didn’t see them and I had some on my hard drive that left with my computer.”

“Actually, they took my laptop as well… buuuuut, I did have a backup hard drive and I was able to reload it into my new laptop.” Scully gave him a smile that sent a cascading warmth through his insides. “Come on up and get what you need.”

Don’t tempt me Scully.

Once inside, Scully took off her coat and headed to the bathroom. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower. Feel free to use my laptop. You already know the password.”

Pushing the image of Scully standing under a hot steaming shower naked and wet out of his mind, Mulder headed straight to her desk and sat down on the hard backed wood chair. A couple swipes at the keyboard and a quick search and Mulder was faced with two folders with his name on it. He considered doing a round of eenie meenie, but in the end just clicked on the top folder. The file names were all dates. In fact there was a file for every day going as far back as a week after his abduction. It had his name on it, so he picked one at random and opened it.

Mulder,

I have to believe you’re out there, alive. That belief is what keeps me moving, keeps me taking those leaps to solve the next X-File. I miss you with every breath, and I refuse to give up hope. We will be together.

Today’s case led us to Indiana, you’re going to laugh when you hear what I told Doggett….

He closed that file and opened another. He didn’t want to know about her and Doggett. There were more, lots more, covering cases, days off, shopping, hospital visits. Mulder couldn’t read fast enough and couldn’t stop either. He opened one dated during the time he was buried in the ground. It read:

Mulder,

Some days I question why I continue writing to you. In the beginning I believe it was because I didn’t want to let go. Other days it felt like you were closer when I did, like somehow, you could still hear me. Now maybe I write them so my baby may one day read them and know what you meant to me, what our relationship was like so one day they might be blessed to find the same. I prayed daily for your return and lately, I pray even harder.

I was going through my old answering machine tapes, my voicemails from my cell. I decided to take all the ones I have and put them on a cassette tape so the baby can hear your voice, know what you sounded like when I tell them about you. Tell them of the love of my life, my perfect other, and how I found him and how he gave his life for us, so that we may live.

I spoke in the past about driving in our endless straight line and now that I can look back on it with a clear mind, I understand that night in Oregon when you said it had to end sometime, in essence, you were throwing me out of the car.

I became pregnant with the full intent to raise this child on my own, to take on the full responsibility. Marriage was nothing I ever strived for even if the possibility of being married never strayed. I put myself, my career, the work, before those things. It was something that might or could, but nothing I truly needed. Now, when I look in the mirror, I know, you were the only one I would have ever considered that kind of commitment with. Now, that chapter of my life is forever closed without ever being written. You were my partner Mulder, in work, in love, in life.

“Did you find what you were searching for?” Scully said, and Mulder practically jumped right out of his skin. He spun in the chair and stood to face her. His fears turned to joy. She was beautiful, radiant, standing there in her robe, casually drying her crimson locks with a towel. And those legs, those little legs, and how they felt wrapped around him… Scully in love.. with him . His heart swelled, lighting him from head to toe, spreading warmth in its wake. A kaleidoscope of emotions ran over every part of him like a raging river, healing the cracks, filling and overflowing the voids.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice low as he barely got the sound out. He had found exactly what he was searching for. He cupped her face as she searched his eyes. He watched the desire that raged in him ignite inside her. Losing that last thread of restraint, he tilted her head up towards him and his lips crashed on top of hers, his tongue plunging into her mouth, his jaw rocking in time with hers, their kisses desperate, almost frantic.

Despite the insatiable hunger he felt, he pulled back to judge her reaction. Her eyes were soft in their gaze, but then her lids lowered and her eyes transformed to blue steel. Before he was able to speak, her fingers were in his hair, pulling him back down, kissing him hard, deep, unleashing unrestrained need and a passion that sent the crown of his cock swelling and brushing the seam of his boxers.

Mulder groaned and gently pushed her away before it went any further. “Is it safe to..”

“The doctor has me on no restrictions,” she answered back hastily. “I just don’t want to move too fast for you. I want you to be ready.”

Mulder laced his hands through her amber locks, knocking her towel to the floor, kissing her again as his pent up feelings burst inside his chest, exploring her mouth, entwining their tongues, caressing her face.

He felt her fingers at his waistband, undoing his button and fly..

“Scully,” he whispered against her mouth and her hand cupped his bare erection. Skin on skin. Pleasure surged in his nerve endings and throbbed in his veins. “There’s not a part of me that didn’t miss this.”

Fuck . Scully closed her grip around his cock and stroked the sleek hot steel up and down. Mulder breathed hard and Scully moaned.

“Let’s go to bed,” she said in a heady rush of impatience.

They kissed their way down the hall, Mulder almost tripping as he had to slouch as they walked to keep them from separating, Pulling off his shirt, hopping on one leg as he stripped off his pants.

The way Scully’s eyes widened when he took off his boxers and freed his cock made him feel ten feet tall. She gave out a warning when he removed her robe that “her body had changed,” and he replied as honestly as he could. “Scully, I’m harder than a male porn star on his first day of work. Yes, it’s because it’s you, but it’s also because you’re more beautiful than the last time I laid eyes on you.”

Scully’s cheeks blushed and her pupils dilated. He matched her smile, both of them recognizing how much was at stake, and how much they both needed this. She turned away from him and he helped her remove her robe. He combed the soft strands of her hair to expose her exquisite neck, trailing soft kisses up the sensitive skin, leaving a wake of raised flesh.

His hands traveled down her body, reacquainting with her new curves: her breasts, her waist, her ass. Soft noises released from the back of Scully’s throat as his fingers brushed over the inside of her thighs. Lust surged through him at the sound, and his length nuzzled the small of her back. Scully gripped the footboard of the bed.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Mulder, please, I want you inside me.”

Her insistence only made him grow harder, but he knew it wasn’t a sprint. “H-how.. What would be most comfortable for you?”

“I think on the bed, on my knees. I can hold onto the footboard, the headboard is a little too high, and if I lean forward… What?”

“Nothing,” Mulder said, but he couldn’t prevent the upturn of his lips. “It’s.. well, you’ve given this some thought.”

Scully lifted a brow. “During that second trimester, you have no idea.”

He helped her onto the bed and followed close behind, holding his hands at her waist. Scully spread her legs and his tip grazed her. Scully looked back at him. “Easy, Mulder.”

On her knees, and hunched forward, her ass in full glorious view, Mulder gripped his length, lined them up, and hesitantly pushed in.

“Oh God, Mulder,” he heard Scully moan.

Sharp pleasure bolted through him. “I know. You’re incredible.”

Easing back, slowly he pushed in again, a couple more inches before easing back again.

“More, Mulder,” Scully gasped, reaching back, her fingers finding his hair, tugging and twisting. “Faster.”

He was so worried about hurting her, but his excitement built and her tight, wet warmth around him only hastened it. He groaned and flexed his hips as another wave of pleasure hit him. She felt so good. The sight of them joining almost too much. This was Scully. They were finally together.

Soon they found a languid pace, her hips doing most of the work, him aiding her movement, pulling it out and letting her push back on him to the depth she craved. Until her knuckles whitened against the footboard. “God, Mulder. I really missed you.” Her walls pulsed and squeezed him tight and he groaned.

With a few light thrusts her body heated and swelled snug around his cock. It made them slide easier, faster. Scully’s jaw went slack as her eyes closed, tightening as she pushed back against him. Her breath was ragged and he could see her concentrating on her movements. It was intense and exquisite and the feelings produced inside him made Mulder moan louder.

He closed his eyes and tightened his fingers on her hips, losing himself in the feeling. Again and again, more and more. He missed everything about this. Her legs tensed and he felt her sucking him further inside. He remembered that feeling. She was close. A few determined thrusts and she cried out, her muscles pulsing hard and rhythmically around him. Mulder’s forehead leaned into her shoulder and he reached for the footboard, covering her hand with his as he shouted, pouring his soul, his love, into her.

“Scully, Scully.” He kept coming, for what seemed like an eternity. It left him spent and shaky. He had to catch himself for a moment, relishing in the feel, and calming his heart. “Everything okay?” As he asked her he could hear the deep octaves in his own voice.

“Mulder,” she breathed out and her blue eyes sparkled at him.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at the sated look on her face as she made her way to the bathroom. When she returned, he helped her back onto the bed.

They stared into each other’s eyes as they laid on their sides face to face. Scully softly caressed his cheek and he mellowed into the feeling of her fingertips across his stubble. He pressed his face into her touch, drowning in it. Mulder leaned over, his lips a breath away from hers, and he stopped to feel their familiar pull. An attraction like no other. Scully raised her face to his, brushing his lips lightly, coaxing him. He kissed her even softer in return, teasing her like she did him until her mouth opened and he could taste her. Scully moaned quietly at the contact. Not knowing exactly what to do with his hand, he used it to prop up his head, the other he ran gently into her hair, stroking it softly.

Without words she tucked her head under his chin, her nose nuzzling his Adam's apple. Scully curled into his torso while he rubbed her back, pulling her carefully towards him until the bump of her belly rested against his tight rippled abs. From through the window he could see the last vestiges of light, painting the sky in orange and reds. White contrails highlighting the color in soft wisps.

He was the only one she would ever consider marrying.

Elation washed over his body. I would marry you, Scully. And raise that baby as mine, no matter how it started its life.

As if he had said it aloud she stirred and opened her eyes. He kissed her forehead once more and returned her drowsy smile. Tugging the comforter over her, they snuggled into their cocoon. Scully’s eyes closed and she mumbled right before her breathing evened out, “Don’t go, Mulder.”

I don’t plan on it, Scully. Not ever.

Thank you @ms31x129 for all the beautiful fanart and your beta work

Thank you @today-in-fic for everything you do for us and the fandom

Tagging friends @babygirlmulder1018 @kyouryokusenshi @bbbway @kblackm @borogirl @dontunderestimateawoman @mulderandscullylover2016 @karinanic @motedeweatherly128 @didhehavealightsaber @scullllaaaay @radioactivefish @whyle23 @aquilla27 @justbeachy42 @jaina01 @muldermakesmehorny @season4mulder @tinydi0sa @ombradellaluna @agertiegirl @improlificinsarcasm @xfimnotdone @its-for-you-have-a-cigar @xfilesobsessed22 @edierone @sculderfan @meg4nnn @spooky-fox-1996 @wolfishlyintimate @yaraswhy @scullyfan43 @chippedcup @kiwiphroot @enigmaticxbee @ombradellaluna @furiouskidcollectorlove @catherine-08 @ednitag @pacyt @scully-yeah-run @danaedaniels @secretstarfishgalaxy @amyg2430 @rosedyl @postmodernpromartheus @borogirl @bakerstreetlady @rebecca @haya661 @themarybfiles @masha2341 @impulsive-astrophile @iwanttorememberhowitallwas @knowleitall-super-soldier @gchick1013 @gillywitch @baly87 @veromar23 @alienbaby-babymama @i-turn-to-stare @jaina01 @sandymans-world

#xf #xf fic #Road to All Things #txf fanfic #txf fanart #txf #xfiles #x files #mulder and scully #msr #xfiles fanfic #todayinfic

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nancygduarteus · 5 years

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Grieving the Future I Imagined for My Daughter

Just after midnight, I felt the first unmistakable contraction. I still had two days until my due date, but I knew it was time to get to the hospital. A bulldozer inside my uterus revved its engine, shifted into high gear, and rammed a baby out into the world less than two hours later. Her name would be Isobel, Izzy for short.

She weighed five pounds, three ounces, below the threshold for “normal.” This was surprising—I’d had an uneventful pregnancy, and in one of my last prenatal checkups, my obstetrician predicted that she’d weigh about seven pounds.

Did the doctor miscalculate my due date? I wondered. Should I have taken more prenatal vitamins? Eaten better, worked less?

There would be no explanation, at least not then. We moved upstairs into a recovery room with a view of the summer sun rising behind the Oakland, California, hills. In those early-morning hours, I cradled Izzy’s warm, powdery body and nestled into a feeling that everything was fine.

Five weeks later my father, a retired pediatrician, put a stethoscope to Izzy’s chest and heard a hissing noise. An echocardiogram two days after that revealed a small hole in the membrane dividing the lower chambers of her heart, causing oxygenated blood to leak back into her lungs. The cardiologist explained that her heart was working harder than it needed to, burning extra calories and keeping her small.

Odds were that over the next few months, new tissue would grow and the hole would “spontaneously” close. Considering how much of human development happens on its own, for a heart to correct itself in this way seemed perfectly plausible. I told myself that’s what would happen. At Christmas and New Year’s Eve gatherings with family and friends, that’s what I told them, too.

But my hope was no match for the eventual and unanimous recommendation from a panel of two dozen cardiologists: open-heart surgery, and soon. A force I could not see was starting to take over.

As Izzy’s surgery date neared, I could feel the panic slowly and steadily growing inside me. I retreated into what could be known: A cardiopulmonary-bypass machine would bring her body to a sub-hypothermic temperature, allowing the heart to stop beating. The surgeon would saw through the sternum, shave a tiny piece of tissue off the heart’s outer membrane, and use it to patch the hole. A resident would sew her back up.

Two conversations helped convince me that after the surgery, Izzy would grow up healthy and things for our family would return to normal. The first was with a couple whose son had the same procedure with the same surgeon. They apologized for having to mute the phone for short stretches to temper their 5-year-old’s rambunctiousness, something I found reassuring.

The second was an email exchange with a woman who underwent a valve replacement in the 1970s, when open-heart surgery on babies was still relatively uncommon. “I was a three-season athlete in high school,” she wrote, “and did all the partying that everyone else did. The only impact on me was a scar that healed well and frankly, made me feel like a bit of a badass.”

Less than 24 hours after doctors had wheeled Izzy into the operating room for surgery, she was guzzling down bottles of high-calorie formula. In 72 hours, her rosiness returned; eight days later, we left the hospital and arrived home to find the first buds on our magnolia tree. Within a few weeks, Izzy had gained enough weight to make her growth-chart debut at the 0.2 percentile. Witnessing her scar heal was like watching a time-lapse movie, only in real time.

I started the process of reeling our ship back to shore—we’d be there soon, I thought. My parents booked their flight back to the East Coast, and my husband started a new job earlier than planned. Disillusioned by my last tech job, I was determined to make a fresh start somewhere else. I could envision the end of Izzy’s recovery period, the loving nanny I’d finally hire, a more deliberate career.

But, no. Just as we’d caught sight of land, we were again suddenly unmoored, pushed by unforgiving hands back out into the dark, open sea.

The cardiologist called on an unseasonably warm afternoon, a Tuesday last April.

Sure, I have a few minutes.

I glanced at Izzy, eight months old, wearing only a diaper. The edges of the five-inch incision line down the middle of her chest were still red and puckered from the suture removal a few days earlier. Her scar served as a visual cue that, surely, the worst was behind us.

The call itself was not a shock. One week before surgery, a neurologist had examined Izzy and noticed abnormalities in her facial features so subtle that I, her mother, could barely see them myself—slightly wide-set eyes, straight eyebrows, a thin upper lip, a tiny hole on the upper ridge of her ear that I’d mistaken for a mole. Genetic testing would be the sensible next step, the neurologist had said. He’d ordered seven vials of Izzy’s blood to be drawn in the OR.

The cardiologist began with a “Well …” followed by a sigh. Then his voice assumed the objectivity of a radio traffic reporter describing a seven-car wreck, and he rattled off the details he knew.

I absorbed only the keywords—“abnormal result … syndrome … genetic material missing …”—and scribbled “1p36” on the back of a stray Home Depot receipt. Anxious for more information, I ended the call and grabbed my laptop.

I steadied my fingers and clicked through to an online forum where parents had celebrated their child’s first step at 3, 4, or 8 years old. They compared devices to help nonverbal children communicate and shared work-arounds to Keppra, an anti-seizure medication that can cause kids to bite themselves or hallucinate.

As I skimmed their posts, my heart pounded and I started to hyperventilate. Air was stuck in my throat; I screamed to let it out, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter so I could scream louder. I felt as if I was suffocating in a room filled with invisible pillows, and the only thing that could cut through it was noise in the form of very loud, guttural, incomprehensible screaming. I slammed a door leading into the bedroom and pounded the walls. I remember thinking, I don’t give a shit if the neighbors hear.

The internet confirmed a truth that up until that moment lay beyond the boundaries of what I’d ever imagined possible for my child’s life or my own. As a mental warm-up before her birth, I’d imagined Izzy in painful situations that were both better (a broken arm, pneumonia, being bullied) and far worse (my death, or hers). I hadn’t imagined a scenario in which she might not walk or talk, or where she’d live with debilitating seizures. I hadn’t imagined that I might be uncertain whether she recognizes me. I hadn’t imagined caring for her for the rest of my life. I now had two children, but was only just beginning to understand what it means to be a parent.

The next day, my husband left early for his third day of work at his new job. In an orientation session about employee volunteering, while the presenter rolled a video about the Make-A-Wish Foundation, he sat in the back row and wept. Meanwhile, after a long, sleepless night, my son watched cartoons as I crawled through Izzy’s morning routine, taking breaks to ice my swollen eyelids. I finally got everyone dressed and dropped him off at preschool a few hours late without the words to explain why.

The day after that, Izzy and I had a geneticist appointment at the medical campus five blocks away. I’d been here before. Almost one year earlier, in my second trimester, I’d sat through the routine prenatal screening for birth defects and Down syndrome. The results had been normal.

The geneticist came in to greet me and Izzy. As I took in her easy, welcoming smile, a wave of relief washed over me. The test was wrong, and this is all a terrible mistake!

This was a delusion. She led us into an examination room, where we were joined by a younger, more clinical assistant. I called my husband and put him on speakerphone—we’d agreed before the appointment that he didn’t need to be there in person, a sign that at some level we had not yet fully grasped the magnitude of Izzy’s diagnosis.

The geneticist told us that my daughter has “the most common of rare syndromes diagnosed after birth.” Her tone remained gentle, but unequivocal.

“The size of her genetic deletion is clinically significant.”

Go on.

“It’s hard to say what that means in terms of how the syndrome will present.”

I recounted some of what the internet had told me. Will she walk? Talk? Hear? Seize? See?

“We just have to wait and see.”

We reviewed three single-spaced pages of test results that looked as though they had come out of a dot-matrix printer. The geneticist was quick to clarify that “terminal deletion” referred to the physical location of Izzy’s 133 missing genes (that is, the terminus of the “p” arm of chromosome 1) and did not suggest that the syndrome itself leads to death, although its complications sometimes can. A second, more user-friendly handout summarized the syndrome’s most common “features” in a tidy, bullet-pointed list: seizures, deafness, blindness, low muscle tone, feeding issues, digestive disorders, heart disease, heart defects, kidney disease, intellectual disability, and behavior problems.

I fixated on the likelihood that Izzy would be nonverbal, feeling gutted by the possibility that she might not talk or even develop the coordination to sign. How would she express herself? How would I know her?

My husband left the appointment by hanging up. The geneticist briefly examined Izzy’s “curly” toes, noting it as a common and typically benign congenital anomaly—connected to her syndrome, perhaps, but no one could know for sure.

I packed up our things and made our way home. The only certainty I left with was that I had a lot more to worry about than a couple of curly toes.

Books, the internet, and friends said I would go through a grieving period. But I am still not entirely sure what I am grieving.

I didn’t lose a child; now a year post-op, Izzy is here and very much alive. She shakes her head vigorously when she’s happy, and grunts indignantly when she’s not. She has gobs of voluminous hair that looks as if it’s been blown out at a salon—a common trait for “1pers,” who bear a strong physical resemblance to one another; many don’t look like their parents. But unlike most “typical” 21-month-old toddlers, she cannot yet sit up by herself (let alone toddle), grab a spoon, or use any words to communicate. A few weeks ago, she started to regularly say “aaaah,” one of the vowel sounds that are the first forms of speech—a milestone that most babies hit at four to five months old.

I spent the months following Izzy’s diagnosis deeply confused about how I should feel. Her heart defect had been an isolated biological issue, and the surgery was a relatively common procedure. The hole is gone. A genetic syndrome is different—uncontained and unfixable. Every cell in Izzy’s body lacks some data, and there’s no way those data can be recovered.

During sleepless nights, I anchored my grief in the heft of Far From the Tree, Andrew Solomon’s profound, 1,000-page book about the challenges parents face in accepting differences in their children. “We depend on the guarantee in our children’s faces that we will not die,” Solomon writes. “Children whose defining quality annihilates that fantasy of immortality are a particular insult; we must love them for themselves, and not for the best of ourselves in them, and that is a great deal harder to do.” The book offered me a crucial mooring. Powerless to change my circumstances, I could at least change my psychology.

I am learning that grief can be complicated and ambiguous—that we hold ideas and expectations of ourselves and loved ones so tightly that we have difficulty seeing them from any distance, and that it’s even harder to let them go.

I can describe what’s gone. I’ve lost the buoyancy I gained from the conversation with the parents of the rambunctious 5-year-old boy. I no longer feel the relief, even joy, of envisioning Izzy as an athletic, partying, badass teenager.

I lost any lightheartedness I had left as the 40-year-old mother of two young children. I lost my faith in statistics. A 99.98 percent chance of something not happening is also a .02 percent chance that it will.

I lost the ability to enjoy the scene of my two kids together without feeling guilty that I’d sold my son short. Instead, it’s a reminder of the responsibility I feel to gently acculturate him to the strange, politicized world of disability rights and rare diseases, and to breed empathy and a respect of difference in him above all else.

I lost the identity, earnings, and lifestyle that came with having an upward career trajectory and being an equal breadwinner to my husband. We now have the sort of traditional arrangement I never thought I’d be in: He makes all the money, and I do most of the emotional, logistical, and physical labor of child-rearing. For Izzy, this includes frequent doctor appointments, three therapy sessions a week, and a lot of open-ended research and worrying.

This laundry list of dreams lost has positive value, Solomon maintains. “While optimism can propel day-to-day life forward, realism allows parents to regain a feeling of control over what is happening and to come to see their trauma as smaller than it first seemed.”

Without crumbly, unreliable hope, what else is there? There’s my child, no less alive or human than any other, and with abilities and inabilities much different than I imagined. And realism, which I’ll use to reassemble a positive, long-term picture of what her life could be. Izzy’s diagnosis wiped my canvas clean. But while the expanse of whiteness is unsettling, it is also temporary. Soon there will be lines, contours, shading—a new and beautiful composition. I will not accept less.

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2019/04/1p36-genetic-disorder-reshaping-my-family/586717/?utm_source=feed

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ionecoffman · 5 years

Text

Grieving the Future I Imagined for My Daughter

Did the doctor miscalculate my due date? I wondered. Should I have taken more prenatal vitamins? Eaten better, worked less?

But my hope was no match for the eventual and unanimous recommendation from a panel of two dozen cardiologists: open-heart surgery, and soon. A force I could not see was starting to take over.

But, no. Just as we’d caught sight of land, we were again suddenly unmoored, pushed by unforgiving hands back out into the dark, open sea.

The cardiologist called on an unseasonably warm afternoon, a Tuesday last April.

Sure, I have a few minutes.

The geneticist came in to greet me and Izzy. As I took in her easy, welcoming smile, a wave of relief washed over me. The test was wrong, and this is all a terrible mistake!

The geneticist told us that my daughter has “the most common of rare syndromes diagnosed after birth.” Her tone remained gentle, but unequivocal.

“The size of her genetic deletion is clinically significant.”

Go on.

“It’s hard to say what that means in terms of how the syndrome will present.”

I recounted some of what the internet had told me. Will she walk? Talk? Hear? Seize? See?

“We just have to wait and see.”

I packed up our things and made our way home. The only certainty I left with was that I had a lot more to worry about than a couple of curly toes.

Books, the internet, and friends said I would go through a grieving period. But I am still not entirely sure what I am grieving.

Article source here:The Atlantic

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kashal1221 · 6 years

Text

Session ? (18, probably): Automatons (15/7/2018, Games@PI)

Dear Dad,

You may have surmised, even from your limited interactions with them, that my companions find little difficulty in landing themselves in hot water. It has been little more than a week since we departed from Opal City, and already much has happened. As you'll recall, having been there at the time, our ship was badly damaged. I was able to use magic to mend it to some extent, but between my being the only proper sailor on the ship, and the one mending any leaks that sprung up, I was rather in need of a couple of helping hands. Einar claimed to have a contact who could help us aquire metal sailors, needing neither food nor rest, from a facility hidden in the Sietemus's Teeth. Already I was suspicious- the area is well known to be riddled with pirates. Stranger still, his contact turned out to be a skeleton. But unlike the undead I have fought in the past, who were as lacking in mental faculties as they were in flesh and blood, this skeleton was as intelligent as any living man. His name was Juniper, and he promised to lead us to this facility.

We received no trouble sailing to the island Juniper directed us to. It was when we landed that trouble began. The entrance to the facility was a large hole in the ground, leading down into fathomless depths. My companions, using methods of calculation I can hardly begin to understand, deemed the drop to be more than a thousand feet, with unknown depths of water beneath. Fortunately, long drops are of little consequence to my companions and myself, though this was a much longer fall than any I have previously undertaken. Jamborin, my half-elven wizard friend, myself, and three of our companions jumped in, and we fell freely for ten seconds or more before Jamborin cast her spell to slow our descent, allowing us to land safely in the water. Two more of our number flew down on our broom of flying, while the skeleton simply jumped, with no spell or magic item to aid him, save whatever enchantments keep his bones upright without flesh to hold them in place.

To reach the facility, there was a further swim down through an underwater passage. Jamborin and I, each through our own methods having the ability to breathe underwater, led the way, though the trip was short enough that even those of us less magically inclined were able to surface on the other side unharmed.

We met a strange woman then, sitting at the front desk. Though our tests deemed her a living human, she behaved more like an automaton, with no animation in her voice or face. All along I had my doubts about this trip. The strangeness of this woman only further worried me. My companions of course still behaved as though this were all a lark. Having been warned that a corridor was filled with traps, three of our number immediately ran directly down that self-same corridor, and as a result were brought almost to the point of death. Still we soldiered on, making our way deeper into the facility. We were left to wait for a good hour, during which my companions nursed their well-deserved wounds. Eventually a man, Winter, came to show us in. As we passed through, we saw more of those strange people, mindlessly working on the constructs, neither speaking nor looking away from their task. It was then that Winter revealed to us the price of the constructs we sought- not any amount of gold, but a living person. As this news sank in, Barris, always quick to draw his gun, opened fire upon Winter. Winter ran to sound the alarm as two suits of armour sprang to life to defend him. It did not take us long to kill Winter. The suits of armour, animated with the spirits of water and fire elementals respectively, proved harder to defeat, though defeat them we did, in the end.

They thanked us as they died. From what I understand, they too were bound unwillingly in service. If I were controlled, and used to enslave others as they were, I too would welcome death.

Our troubles were not yet over. The door through which we had come began to descend, trapping us in that room. Finch, our alchemist, as well as Jamborin's familiar, Bookwyrm, were the only ones fast enough to slip through before the door slammed closed. The rest of us, stuck inside the room, were able to work open a second door, which led to a loading bay, a handy means of escape. We communicated with Finch and Bookwyrm, and planned to each go out our separate ways, us through the loading bay and him back through the way we had come. But on the other side of the door, something strange began to happen to Finch. He became flat and mindless as the workers we had seen, and began to join them in their work. I teleported through the door and ran to him, shaking him, hoping to wake him from this enchanted stupor. For a moment he looked at me with a spark of recognition, but it was quickly suppressed, and he returned to work. Taking hold of him, I dragged him towards the door. But that was when something entered my mind, the same thing that had enslaved my friend. For a moment I faltered, my body leaving my mind's control, but with great mental effort I broke free, and teleported Finch and myself back through the door.

Reunited with our friends, Finch's consciousness soon returned to him. In the loading bay, we found various means to bring ourselves as well as some cargo up to the surface, more than a thousand feet above us. Finch and our light-fingered friend, Luisa, found themselves a barrel which turned out to be a machine meant for underwater travel, which was fashioned somewhat after the features of a crab. It fitted only two, but the three breathing members of the party who could not do so underwater found magical means there in the loading bay. And so we made our way through the water, hanging on to the crab-like machine as it rose through the depths.

We were accosted then by a terrifying sea creature. It had three large, bulbous eyes and a mouth filled with spiny teeth, and many waving tentacles fanned out behind. It spoke in our minds, furious that we had stolen from it.

As we fought the creature, I felt it probe into my mind, demanding that I submit to its will. I recognised the cold touch of its magic. This was the same creature that had attempted to enslave Finch and myself, the same creature that enslaved the poor workers inside that terrible facility. Angered by this realisation, and bolstered by the knowledge that I had bested its enslaving power once before, I once again threw off the enchantment and continued to fight it.

The creature soon realised we were not a party to be trifled with, and it sought to escape. We pursued it, the crab-like machine catching and refusing to release it as we sought to kill the foul creature once and for all. A spell from Juniper put the monstrous thing to sleep, and we all gathered round, each of us preparing our deadliest attacks, hoping to kill it before it woke. On Juniper's signal, we let loose with spells and weapons, all eight of us at once. The massive creature fairly dissolved into a pulp from the strength of our attack.

Monstrous creature dealt with, we continued on to the surface, though not unharmed. Two of our number were cursed by the creature's foul aura. Barris was quickly healed, but the other, our newest wizard Aquila, suffers still. She is bound to a tub that we have filled with seawater - emerging for too long causes her terrible pain.

Upon our return to the ship, I was naturally furious with Einar for leading us to such an evil place, and I played a rather terrible trick upon him. I told him that we had bought the constructs, and that as the payment was a living person, we had come to retrieve him, to use him as payment. He looked so terrified at the prospect that I could not keep up the pretence for long. Even so, the relief when I told him that we were not indeed selling him had him in tears. In truth, I am somewhat perturbed that he did not question my story in the slightest. He fully believed I was capable of such a thing. Perhaps I have after all been too hard on him. I do regret playing that trick on him, especially as Jamborin decided that the scare was not punishment enough, and sought to tie him to the mast. I brought him down, of course, and he collected himself enough to have us on our way to Oceanward, now aided by seven stolen constructs.

We are at Oceanward now, with our ship at dry-docks while we search for a healer for Aquila, though the city is far from a haven away from danger. As it turns out, two of our number are wanted criminals here. One, you can probably guess. There are few places where Luisa is not a wanted criminal. The other may surprise you. Our dear alchemist is wanted here for treason, and there is a not insignificant bounty on his head. I hardly know what it is that he has done, but I know him to be a good man of strong morals, and I hold little respect for heads of state as it is. We will do our best to keep him safe, but I somehow doubt we will make it in and out of this city without incident. I will update you in my next letter on how this all plays out. I dearly hope I will have nothing to report, but I sincerely doubt that to be the case.

Love, Hamish

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beacon-of-chaos · 7 years

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Defenders of Aura 2 - A Battle Century G Sequel

Session 5 We dock in the Argo's hanger. Fauna's plant mech, Wyrdwood, sends her a message: one of her passengers is dying (something I forgot from the last session: the dropship was shot down by an enemy mech during the last fight, Fauna was able to rescue the passengers before the ship crashed). Fauna focuses her magic through Wyrdwood and is able to heal the worst of the damage, allowing the injured girl to heal, though it will take time before she'll make a full recovery. Crew members arrive to put our mechs in harnesses to prepare for a warp jump. The GM describes the jump to the Nauls thusly: GM: This feels very different to how Naul warp technology works. Naul ships operate by finding etheric currents in space and riding them to their destination, much like a sailing ship using the wind to gain speed. Human ships seem to grab the currents and force them in the direction they want to go. It feels very strange. We all disembark from our mechs. Fauna immediately has a group of teenagers surrounding her, thanking her for saving them and marvelling at her magic powers. Fauna goes bright red in that very anime way. Just then we are approached by a certain man wearing a flowing red scarf. It's Juyon! He was able to avoid capture when the Argo was boarded. He's now been made the chief security officer. On the way to the bridge he tells us that after we were captured the remaining crew hidden on board were able to take back the ship and warp it away to another planet where they were able to get repairs and upgrades. We quiry how exactly they got the funds to this, but Juyon just says there's someone here who can explain it better than he can. And as we arrive on the bridge a short alien in a really big hat turns to greets us. Eric rushes to Spectre, hugging his leg. Spectre: I knew you'd be okay! Eric: I'm sorry I wasn't able to be there to help your escape. Spectre: I'm just glad you're safe. We catch up with Eric for a bit before asking about the situation. He mentions that our mysterious benefactor is on board and waiting for us. There have also been reports that the Chinese army on Aura have been subject to many hit and run attacks by a fleet of ships apparantly commanded by... Fiona. This is pretty surprising considering A) She just wanted to save her wife and kids and then leave the system and B) She only left with a couple of modified mining robots and David Washington, who was heavily drunk at the time. We head to a meeting room to meet with our benefactor. We realise we've met him before. This man was the President of Camelot, before his actions in our war got him convicted of treason. He fled capture and aided the Argo using what wealth of his he was able to escape with. The coup was started by Grand Duke Edgar Malukah, Supreme Commander of the Camelot Defence Forces (And, if memory serves, Lucis' brother, but don't quote me on that) and happened very suddenly, with many informants and supporters of the president and the Queen vanishing without a trace and many bank accounts being stopped; most likely this had been planned for a long time. The President officially asks for our help in taking back Camelot. We all agree, though Spectre seems reluctant. Sinclair tells him that saving Camelot will making finding his father easier for us in the long run. Fauna makes it clear that she is a pacifist and will help us but won't kill. We leave and now have some time to ourselves. Eric informs Spectre that a message from his father has arrived. The two quickly depart to watch it privately. The following is paraphrased: Victor: My Son. You have come so far and learned so much. I had always hoped you would be just as great a scientist as me and you have done just that. I'm proud of you. *Spectre squeezes Eric's hand a little tighter at this point* I understand you are helping to save Camelot now. This is a worthy goal and I'd like you to continue with it. We will meet again, soon enough. My research will soon be completed and I'd like you to be there when it is. Together we will change everything for the better. See you soon. Spectre also receives an encoded file from his father. None of the rest of us have seen it yet but Spectre's player was grinning when he read it. OOC: We're pretty sure it just says "Kill your friends". A message for Sinclair comes from Ajihra. She apologises for not getting a chance to catch up back on Camelot, but she would like to invite Sinclair to talk in the VR Net. The GM explains that the VR net never really took off on Camelot, so it's a safe place for us to talk. Sinclair plugs himself in and finds himself transported to a city. The buildings are old but clean and in the distance a space elevator stretches into the sky. The streets are deserted, save for one young woman: Ajihra, looking a few years older. She walks up to Sinclair and giggles. Sinclair looks down to see that he doesn't appear to have any textures yet and his entire body just has the words "Image Not Found" written over it. Sinclair: I guess I'll try and construct a body quickly. What do I roll? Intellect? Resources? GM: Charm *Sinclair rolls well and creates a slick new body made of silver* Ajihra: Looks good! Sinclair: Thanks. You too. You're looking pretty different. It hasn't been that long, has it? Ajihra: Oh, no, well, maybe in a few years this will be me. Ajihra explains that the city they are in is her home city in Uganda, back before the Chinese attacked. She asks how Sinclair is, considering his recent treatment. He admits that he's not entirely sure how he's functioning at this point. He seems to be running on will alone. Ajihra mentions her implants, a chip in her brain linked to cybernetics in her hands that give her immense control over electronic systems of all kinds. The line between flesh and machine is blurry. Perhaps Sinclair is evolving? Suddenly, time seems to stop for Sinclair, and his mysterious friend approaches. Space Face: You notice how she strives to improve herself with technology? She wants to be more like you. Tell me, what do you want to be? Sinclair: I... suppose I've never really thought about that. I've always thought of my life in terms of what my purpose and goals are. Space Face: These things are not too dissimilar. What do you want to do? Sinclair: I want to help my friends and save my home. Space Face: Think about how you can achieve those goals and what you need to be in order to do so. Sinclair: Who are you, really? Space Face: I am just a man who wants others to reach their full potential. Did you know the gods you met were once ordinary Nomads before they evolved? You have great potential... Meanwhile, in the medical bay, Fauna is acquainting herself with the medical staff when the President approaches her and asks about how she came to be arrested. She replies that she was living in an enclave of nature worshippers when she grew suspicious of the elder's activities. When she investigated him, she found that he had been selling Naul bio-tech to the humans for "experiments". It was not long after this that she was arrested and she believes the elder was behind it. President: That bio-tech is almost certainly the same that Jemiko's people were experimenting on in that base you found. It seems like your enclave will be the next place we need to investigate. Are you prepared for that? Fauna: I'm willing to help out but I'm not an expert in investigation or stealth or anything- President: I mean emotionally prepared. Fauna: ...I think so. Lucis is looking after his student rebels when Alan asks to speak with him. He apologises for his actions back in the hideout (oops, forgot to write about that too: he suggested surrendering to the enemy, claiming he wanted to keep the girls safe. Katari headbutted him. Also I'm not entirely sure that Alan's his name) though he was only doing what he thought was right. Lucis accepts his apology, though declines Alan's offer to punch him, as Katari did more than enough pain last time. Speaking of Katari, he is in a training room giving some combat lessons to some of the crew. When he asks for a volunteer it's Juyon (with Fauna temporarily back in control of him) who steps forward. What happens next is an absolutely awesome exhibition match in which Juyon runs circles around Katari, dodging nearly every attack and getting many good hits in himself, such as a jumping knee to the face (causing his player to exclaim "why weren't you this good when I was playing you!?"). Katari takes it in his stride and uses this to explain to the crew how Juyon is using his opponent's strength against him, and even lets Juyon pin him to show them how it's done, though he then shows them how to break free. Spectre is watching on the sidelines and, feeling bold, decides now would be a good time to jump Katari, despite warnings from, well, everyone. The science guy pits his mighty 2 fitness against the muscle-bound warrior's 10 and the end result is Spectre getting hung upside-down by his ankles as though he was being shaken down for his lunch money. We all have a good laugh. After Spectre has recovered we are called into the briefing room by the president. There's an incident happening on Camelot, near Fauna's enclave. A group of mechs are using chainsaws and flamethrowers to destroy the nearby forest. This seems like a great opportunity to jump in and put ourselves in good stead with the enclave members for our investigation. We are to drop soon. And by 'drop' he means that because the Argo can't afford to land or stay in orbit long enough for a dropship to drop us off, we'll be making reentry with our mechs. Sinclair and Spectre point out they've done it before and it wasn't fun. The others get a quick crash course in the VR simulators. Katari will be staying inside Fauna's mech until landing as he doesn't pilot Razorinth- he rides on top. Sinclair: I feel like riding your pet into a mech battle is a bad idea. Katari: He's not my pet, he's my partner. The time comes. The Argo drops out of hyperspeed, drops us down, and warps away again before the defence forces can track it. We land exactly on target, right near the mechs tearing the forest apart. Lucis' scanner detect that these are unmanned mechs being controlled from somewhere not too far from here. At least we don't need to feel guilty about breaking them. Fauna uses her plant magic to trap two of the mechs with vines (getting a good bonus due to home terrain advantage), setting up Spectre who unleashes a mighty blast from his rail bazooka, vaporising them both. Fauna (to us): Please try not to destroy my home. Sinclair unsheathes his melee weapon, a chainsword, as he falls from orbit. The bonuses he gets are insane and he slices a mech in half, though he ends up hitting the ground so hard that Nova ends up trapped up to its elbows in mud. While Fauna attempts to extricate him, Lucis and Katari deal some heavy damage to the remaining two mechs. Once Sinclair is free, he and Spectre combine their attacks, a machine gun and a flamethrower respectively, to finish the fight. After the dust settles, we see shapes approaching us from behind the trees. They look not unlike Wyrdwood, though larger and heavily armoured. Lucis exits his mech to stand on its hand as he hails the Naul mechs with a loudspeaker, tellin them we come in peace and have rid their forest of intruders. The leader of the Naul group replies. He offers us the hospitality of his home in thanks, though we notice that he seems ill at ease, even slightly angry. We try to make the excuse that we should be looking for the pilot of these drones, but the Naul tells us that they are taking care of it. We debate as to whether we are walking into some kind of trap, but Katari asks the man to swear on his horns that he will not harm us and he agrees. Satisfied, we follow him into the enclave. We are told we will meet with the village elder. Fauna is understandably worried about what will happen, but we're with her and we'll keep her safe. The elder greets us and thanks us for our help. He speaks to Fauna, apologising for what happened. He felt he was doing the right thing in sharing knowledge with the humans, but they have turned that knowledge against the Nauls. He also says it was the humans that arrested her, not him, and that he didn't know until it was too late. Fauna is skeptical but accepts the apology. The elder asks one of his people to take us somewhere we can get food and we follow along. As we walk, however, Katari falls behind as his attention is drawn by something. He turns a corner to see a figure in the distance, a Naul wearing red. "YOUUUUUUUU!" he bellows, and races after the man. To be continued... This session was quite talky, lots of good roleplaying from everyone, hence more dialogue this time. We're on hiatus for a few weeks due to various holidays, so session 6 will be next month some time. Bonus quotes: http://www.giantitp.com/forums/shows...&postcount=544

#battle century g #campaign diary #rpg #sci-fi #mecha #longpost

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