#this might actually be worse than an NDE

[buddiebabyroo]

Did he just have his oh. Moment????

#which could mean nothing

9-1-1 | Season 8, Episode 8, ‘Wannabes’

[sonatanotwo]

This suddenly seems much shorter than how it feels in Quoll writer... huh. Um. Anyhoo. Oh man. I can post rp np, but posting a fic has me anxious as all heck. XDDD  SO. YEAH. I started this like.... so long ago... Sometime in July of 2015... Yeah. I. Suck at this. XDDD Um. Anyhoo. This chapter could still end up changed in the future... but I think it’s fairly locked in at this point, but who knows. lol I should stop stalling.

So. Here is the first chapter of this... thing. The title it has is only tentative so I’m gonna... not mention it. XD //drops it and goes to like... hide// /)__(\;;;;;

"Thunderbird 2 to base... Mission complete, I'm on my way home."

"F.A.B. Thunderbird 2. ...You okay, Virgil?"

"Yeah, just tired," Virgil replied Gordon over the comms as he flew towards Tracy Island—home. He'd been out on what had meant to be a simple mission, but of course, it had been anything but simple, in the end. Exhausted, Virgil was incredibly glad to be on his way home, though he still had one obstacle to deal with.

"Ah, one of those, huh?"

"Yeah, one of those," Virgil replied, unable to not crack a small smile, in spite of it all. "I'll tell you about it later. How about that tropical storm? How're things looking from the ground?"

Thunderbird 5 had been monitoring a tropical storm forming for quite a few days now. While it didn't look like it was going to be upgraded in strength, it would still pack a pretty good wallop on their island. Virgil had expected to be home long before then, but of course, it wasn't going to work out that way. John had kept him informed of the status from above, but that didn't exactly tell him what he needed to know.

"Not too good. The sky is looking pretty dark and the waves are really crashing against the island. Think you'll beat it?"

"It's not looking too likely, but I should be okay as long as the runway stays clear. Keep an eye on it for me, would ya? If it'll be more like taking a swim than a landing, I might have to have a change of plans."

He had a few options if going home wasn't viable. He could keep above the storm and just wait it out or see if Lady Penelope wouldn't mind a visitor for a day or two. Neither were as appealing as getting home and falling into his own bed, however. There was little else he wanted more right now.

"Sure thing, Virg."

"Thanks, Gordon. Keep me informed. Thunderbird 2, out."

Once Gordon's hologram vanished from his dash, Virgil returned his full attention to the various indicators in front of him and the darkening sky through the cockpit windows. Well, there were those storm clouds. Things were about to get a whole lot more bumpy.

As if on cue, Thunderbird 2 shuddered from turbulence as she flew into the storm. This was hardly the first, nor would it be the last time Virgil flown through such weather. Thunderbird 2 was designed to handle harsh storms, but it didn't mean it was easy flying, by any means.

Gripping the yoke, Virgil did his best to keep her steady. It made no sense to climb up above the storm considering he was coming up on being only minutes from Tracy Island. At least, it made no sense unless he heard otherwise, although he was starting to wonder if his plan to land hadn't been his best idea. Even this, however, would be easier than his last tricky landing, so he wasn't inclined to abort at this point

Intending to call in again that he was about to land, the comms crackled to life before he could activate it. It was definitely Gordon contacting him again, but Virgil couldn't make heads or tails of anything that was being said. As harsh as the storm was, Virgil wasn't sure why the signal had suddenly distorted so badly. Perhaps the island comms equipment had taken some damage? Reaching up to flick a switch on the comm controls, Virgil quickly returned his hand to the yoke.

"Gordon? You're going to have to repeat that, for me," he replied distractedly, eyes on his instruments, as he was starting to descend to make an attempt at landing.

"Th—nde—"

The signal this time dissolved into nothing but static, much to Virgil's frustration. Reaching up again, Virgil stopped short of the buttons he'd intended to press as something happened.

Every indicator on the dash suddenly spun madly, as Virgil felt a violent shudder run through his ship. Lightning? No, he had the new and thoroughly tested lightning shield up—it wasn't a lightning strike. The lights in the cockpit flickered and then suddenly, blinding white light filled his vision, forcing Virgil to close his eyes.

For a moment, it felt like the world had gone completely topsy turvey around him. He felt disoriented in more ways than one by time he pried his eyes back open. How long had his eyes been closed? He couldn't say. It was like he'd completely zoned out which was easy to believe as his head was absolutely spinning. It even took a moment to realize the shrill sound of a warning alarm really was blaring in his ears.

It had to have been pure instinct that made him cut the rockets and fire the VTOLs, pulling Thunderbird 2 into a sharp turn, just narrowly managing to avoid crashing into the island cliff face. The proximity alarm fell silent.

Allowing Two to hover on her VTOLs, Virgil sat back, releasing a breath of air he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. His head was spinning and his knuckles white, still clutching onto the yoke for dear life. It was rare that Virgil was shaken, but whatever the heck had just happened, had him literally trembling. Nothing like that had EVER happened in the hundreds, upon hundreds of times he'd come in to land, even in bad weather. He could not think of any explanation in the slightest for what had occurred. It wasn't like he'd blacked out. He knew what that was like and that sure hadn't been it. Not to mention, whatever it had been, it had definitely affected Thunderbird 2 as well.

His thoughts were interrupted as the comm suddenly sprang to life, the signal once more clear and a frantic voice on the other end.

"Thunderbird 2! Base to Thunderbird 2! What just happened? You nearly crashed into the island, Virgil!"

Okay, maybe the signal wasn't so clear. Either something was wrong with the comms or his ears, because something sounded decidedly off. Then again, considering what just happened, was that really so strange?

"I don't know... I..."

"Whoa, Virg. You don't sound so good. You better land."

"Y-yeah... F.A.B."

Virgil purposefully killed the comms, wanting to ensure a moment to himself as he rubbed his face with both hands. He was feeling worse, rather than better. What was wrong with him? Maybe something really was up with his hearing, given his head was spinning. A concussion? Although, he didn't remember hitting his head on anything and he didn't seem feel any bump on it either. Virgil also was fairly certain he didn't have near enough a rough a jolt to do it either. Did he have a migraine, perhaps? His stomach was definitely starting to feel rather nauseous, which certainly gave the thought merit, but what about what happened to Thunderbird 2? It had been affected just as much as he had.

Well, he figured he would try to work out what just happened later, for now he just needed to land, given he didn't know if anything was wrong with his ship and that storm was only getting worse.

He started to circle Thunderbird 2 around to make a second approach, but found himself bringing his the large craft to a stop midair once more.

"What the...?" he muttered aloud, staring through the narrow windows at the island below.

Even through the rain, he could see the island wasn't Tracy Island. It bore a resemblance, sure, but this wasn't it. Beyond puzzled he brought up the GPS and ended up looking even more stumped. No, these were exactly the coordinates. This was where it was meant to be it. This was meant to be home, but it just wasn't.

Had something happened to his GPS? It didn't seem to be malfunctioning, but surely it had to be. What other reason could there be for this?

What was going on?

There was a runway below, however and given his head was spinning even worse now and he was struggling to keep Thunderbird 2 steady, he really had no choice—he'd have to set her down there. Aiming to set her down as inland along the runway as he could to get as much shelter from the incoming storm as possible, he somehow managed it.

Almost feeling like he would actually be sick at this point, he decided he needed at least a moment of fresh air. As soon as he at least felt a little better, he'd contact Thunderbird 5. John could then get a fix on his location and they could try to figure out just where he really was and how broken his GPS was.

Virgil practically stumbled from his seat onto the elevator. Stepping onto the runway, he was met with sea spray and wind. Rain hadn't started yet, but it would only be a matter of time. Unfortunately, the fresh air didn't seem to be helping at all. Leaning back against one of his ship's landing struts, he stared down the runway, noticing several figures had appeared and were running towards him. Was that good? He wasn't even sure, but he didn't take a chance, touching his wrist controller to have the elevator ascend.

For a brief moment, Virgil even thought he heard his name being called, but he couldn't stay on his feet any more, his head was just swimming. He let himself sink down onto the runway and closed his eyes, despite hearing voices now above him. He just couldn't pry them back open.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

half-light chapter 14

one /// two /// three /// four /// five  /// six /// seven /// eight /// nine /// ten /// eleven /// twelve /// thirteen

if anyone has ever wanted to read a nearly 8k plot explosion featuring characters who are, um, not mulder and scully, then this is your chapter. (two things: 1. i was halfway considering cutting this chapter bc i thought a switch in narration would break the rhythm but i ended up being glad i did because a) this was fun and b) so much important plot stuff, and 2. this may not feature mulder and scully very much but that doesn’t stop everyone from talking about them every other line so no worries. also, it was weird as shit to write scenes without one of them in it.)

fourteen.

When Samantha was little and still Samantha Mulder, she’d thought her house must be the smallest house in the world. It wasn’t true, of course - it was actually fairly big compared to the one she’d live in later - but it had seemed that way because of her brother. He’d seemed to take up so much space, running up and down the halls, bouncing basketballs off the walls and throwing baseballs through the windows (God, their dad had shouted at that one), sharp elbows jutting into her side as he’d shoved past and knocked whatever she was holding in her hands to the ground, his voice always too loud. She’d told her first mother she hated him, once, and her mother had shaken her head and said, “You shouldn’t say that, sweetheart. He might not be around someday.”

And she hadn’t believed her until she’d woken up in a strange room when she was eight, with her father’s friend smoking a cigarette, and he’d smiled and patted her on the head and told her she was very brave. “When can I go home?” she’d said. She hadn’t wanted to be brave, she wanted her bed and that stupid teddy bear Fox always made fun of and those cookies her mom made the other day (the ones she could only have one of at a time but Fox always had two and he’d probably give her two, too).

“You can’t,” the smoker said. “You have to stay here, or your mom and dad will get in a lot of trouble. You don’t want them to get in trouble, do you?”

He was using that little-kid voice grown-ups always did. Like she couldn't understand him. She scowled and kicked the end of the bed. “I guess not,” she said. “But what about Fox? Why doesn’t he have to come here?” Or maybe he was here, she thought; maybe the light had taken him, too. The last thing she remembered was him shouting her name, the way he had when she’d fallen into the deep part of the lake before she could swim. (He’d yanked her out by her arm, and they’d both gotten yelled at for being irresponsible and had to stay in the house for the rest of the day, and her arm had hurt but he hadn’t called her a baby when she complained about it.)

Her father’s friend had gotten a funny look on his face. He sat for a minute before saying, "Your brother is... gone."

"Gone," she'd repeated. "Like... like how I'm gone?"

"No," her father's friend said solemnly, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Samantha had gotten a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. This reminded her of the time her cat had died. "Gone like... dead?"

The smoker nodded.

The sick feeling increased, and she thought she might throw up. She slithered down under the covers and pulled the sheet over her head. "I'll let you rest," the smoker said, patting her head again through the blankets. His shoes clicked on the linoleum. Samantha pressed her face into the scratchy pillowcase and tried not to cry. And then she remembered when Fox had called her a baby whenever she cried and she couldn't help it then, so she sobbed quietly into the pillow.

Everything had seemed a lot bigger, from then on. Like the universe would just swallow her up.

***

Right after the gunshots had stopped, Samantha had heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. She popped up out of the bushes and yelled, "Scully!", even though it was a stupid thing to do. It didn't matter, anyway, because judging by the blank look on Scully's face as she sped away, she was under the control of the chip.

Her gun still lay out on the pavement, and Samantha lunged for it. (Her second father, Max, had taught her how to shoot a gun when she turned seventeen: "I think it's an important skill to have, with our lives," he'd said. By which he’d meant the restrictions and annual abductions. They'd given her a gun for her eighteenth birthday, and she'd carried it until the day the Syndicate had caught her, somewhere in California.) She scooped the gun up, clutching it between her palms, and scrambled to her feet, stumbling a little as she stood.

"Run away from home?" said the familiar sinewy voice from her childhood. The smoker stepped out from a car, the gun that was probably the one shooting at them dangling from his fingers.

Rage bubbling up inside her, Samantha aimed the gun. "You bastard. What the hell were you trying to do?"

"Send a message," he said calmly. "I was hoping Agent Scully would run out of rounds and surrender. I didn't expect her chip to snap into effect that quickly. I expected it to be a few hours, at least, before she’d be headed for her abduction site. It’ll probably be a few hours before you do, though."

She squeezed the gun barrel, looking for some composure. "You knew that her chip was going to call her?" she said incredulously. "How? You don’t control the chips! And Scully wasn’t one of your hand picked abductees.”

"She wasn’t. We suspected, though. We've been tracking the extraterrestrials' movements, and they're touching down at most of the abduction sites this week. But this time, we're going to be ready for them." He paused ominously, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket with his free hand.

"You're going to destroy them," Samantha said, realizing. Start a damn war that they couldn’t win. How fucking stupid were they, they didn’t know anything about the aliens. They would be demolished. It would be like every alien apocalypse movie ever, except no one would have any idea how to fight back because no one knew anything about the aliens. Because it was all classified. Goddamnit, the irony in this one was rich. Her brother would love it.

"Destroy or be destroyed," the smoker said cheerfully, lighting his cigarette. “This charade has gone on long enough. We’re ready for it all to be over.”

Samantha felt the burn in her neck that she's been feeling since she was eight. Fuck, if she was called, there wouldn't be any way for her to get away and find Fox and Scully. "So why are you coming after me?" she snapped. "What does it matter if I've escaped? I think I've more than served my time. Over twenty-three years of my goddamn life." (She started when she realized that twenty-three years was how long Scully had said their NDE was.)

"We need to keep your father in place," the smoker said. "At least until this - hopefully brief - war is over."

Everyone thinks a war is going to be brief until they start it, Samantha thought. You’ll destroy the world in your wake. Who are you to make these kinds of decisions without authorization? "That's bullshit."

"Whether it is or it isn't, I'm afraid we need you for just a little bit longer." The smoker raised his gun.

There was the click of a gun being cocked, and her first mother stepped behind him, holding a gun to his head. She was wearing a coat over her damn nightgown, flapping in the wind, and she looked like a little girl playing at being a grown-up. Samantha shivered. She had a lot of pent-up resentment for her parents, both of them. But now she was torn between yelling at her mother and running up to hang off of her like a little kid. "Mom," she said.

"Teena…?" The smoker tried to turn around. She pressed the barrel of the gun hard into his cheek. Her hand was shaking; her mom had always been terrified of guns. Her father keeping one in the house, even in a locked box (that had only made things worse when their son was trying to save their daughter from aliens), had spurned what had seemed like a thousand of their millions of arguments. Samantha was surprised she'd even picked one up, much less pointed it at someone.

"You’ve betrayed this family enough," her mother said.  She addressed Samantha: "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

Samantha lowered Scully's gun as well. "Fine," she said. She'd dealt with worse, actually.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Of course someone had called the fucking police; gun battles don't go unnoticed, especially in the middle of a neighborhood. When the Syndicate had found her in a little cafe in California, they’d staged an arrest so as not to attract too much attention. Samantha tried not to let her hands shake, swallowing hard. Solitary confinement terrified her.

“We need to go,” her mother said. The smoker tried to say something, and she whacked him, hard, in the back of the head. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. Samantha gaped at her; she’d never known her mother could do anything like this. “Come on, sweetheart,” her mother said. “We need to leave before the police get here.”

With no other choice, she clutched Scully’s gun in her hand and ran after her, around the block to where her mother had left her car so fast that her lungs burned.

"Where's Dana?" her mother asked when they got in the car.

"Chip. She left." (She realized only later that her mother might know about the chips, but she didn't care.)

Her mother nodded. Her eyes were a little wild, and she was breathing just as hard as Samantha, if not worse. "And you don't know where Fox is?"

"We couldn’t ask. Dad wasn't there, I think," Samantha said, chewing her lip. She didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. She didn't know if she cared. "Did you follow us?"

"Yes," she said simply, and didn't elaborate.

They drove without talking any more for a minute; Samantha had absolutely no idea where they were going. Or what her next move needed to be. There was really only one logical option, though. "I need to borrow some money, Mom," she said. "I need to rent a car and drive back to DC." Her mother opened her mouth, assumedly to protest, and she snarled, "I need to go and save your son."

Her mother's jaw clenched, but she nodded. They drove to a nearby car rental place in silence where she paid for a car and set aside some money for gas.

"Thank you," Samantha said awkwardly when they exited the building. She didn't know what else to say. She had nothing to say and everything to say, and this didn't seem like the time. She needed to save her brother.

"Will you be careful, sweetheart?" her mother said.

A lump built up in her throat. "I will," she said. "I promise." She hugged her mother briefly and kissed her papery cheek. "You be careful, too," she added. She was surprised at her mother's methodicalness, her calm in doing this. Maybe she’d learned something from years with her father, from whatever her relationship was to the smoker (because Samantha sure as hell knew there had been more than wife of business colleague and business colleague).

"You've grown so much," her mother said, smoothing back a wild strand of hair. "I wish I'd been there to see it."

Samantha tried not to cry as she walked away, car keys cutting into her sweaty palm.

***

She'd learned to drive at the normal time, but had to wait to get her license until after she'd gone to college. (Permission by the Syndicate; it was close by so they could watch her. She'd failed several classes because of her abductions.) Still, she likes driving. After she had left her mother to deal with the police, she'd driven back to Scully's sister's house methodically in a new-smelling old-looking rental. She turned the radio all the way up to drown out her thoughts.

It didn't work, completely. Her thoughts kept turning back to Fox. The fact that her twelve-year-old brother had grown up seemed absolutely foreign to her, let alone the fact that he'd become an FBI agent who had apparently spent years looking for her, who went by Mulder, and had a badass wife who he called Scully, and carried a gun. She couldn't stop picturing the kid who'd teased her and had said, Get out of my life, right before she... well, had. (Which, she didn't resent him for. She remembered being twelve, quiet and moody and angry at the world. And it was hard to resent him for anything when she'd thought him dead.)

She bought a pocket knife in Pennsylvania, when she stopped to get gas, and considered cutting out the chip in the backseat of the rental car. She was terrified she would be called. But then again, there was a lot more risk, driven by the fact that she couldn’t actually see what she was doing, and she still wasn’t sure what taking out the chip would do to her. And if she bled out in Pennsylvania because she cut too deep or in the wrong place, she wouldn’t be able to find Fox and Scully. So in the end, she dropped the pocket knife in her pocket, in case she lost the gun, and kept on driving, waiting for a hallucination to overtake her. But none did.

Somehow, she managed to find Melissa's house. It was getting dark when she got there, stars streaking over the sky, and she felt limp, exhausted. She hadn't slept well since before her second parents died, before she went on the run and was held captive and went on this crazy search for her brother. (She certainly hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning in the strange bed, worrying about her not-dead brother and the Syndicate finding them and seeing her mother again.)

Melissa paled when she opened the door."Samantha?" she said, frantic. "Where's Dana?"

"She's, um," Samantha said awkwardly.

A man appeared behind Melissa. "The chip?" he asked knowingly.

He didn't particularly look like a member of the Syndicate - the fuckers always wore suits, and he was wearing worn jeans and a t-shirt, apart from the fact that his eyes were the same as Melissa’s and Scully’s - so Samantha nodded. "The chip forced her to leave," she said apologetically. "I'm so sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

Melissa groaned, a pallor that made her look vaguely sick to the stomach coming over her. The man looked just as panicked at her words. "Shit," she muttered fiercely, rubbing her temple with one hand. "Shit, um… Come on in, Samantha. Charlie, this is Dana’s boyf- I mean husband's sister. Samantha, this is my brother, Charlie. He's apparently also an abductee." She sounded like someone who had just experienced an incredibly long day, bitter and angry. (Samantha knew the feeling.)

"You're an abductee?" Charlie asked. Samantha nodded. "Take out your chip," he said in a rush. "It won't hurt you."

"It won't?"

"I've had mine out for years and been fine," he said. "And apparently, there's a war about to start, and abductees are the bait. According to my father, at least. He has connections or some shit."

"That's what I've heard," she said. "I don't suppose either of you are also doctors?"

"No," Melissa said miserably. "That's Dana’s forte."

"I took mine out," Charlie said. "I can do it safely. I'll help you."

The chip was burning again. Samantha tried to focus. "Fox and Scully," she said. "Er, Dana. How do we save them? From what you're saying and what I’ve heard, it sounds like they're going to be right in the line of fire." Melissa made a muffled sound behind her hand.

"Exactly," Charlie said grimly. "Dad said he was going to call Dana’s boss or something like that. Why, I don't know... maybe he thinks someone who heads the kind of department they're in will believe anything?"

"I can't believe this," Melissa growled. "I can't believe any of it. Well, I mean, the aliens I can believe, but what I can’t believe is you. Why would no one ever tell me? You or Dana. Does Bill know?"

"Bill doesn't know, God forbid. He only worships the ground Dad walks on," Charlie said bitterly. "Although if he's in government work, They might pull him in sooner or later. That's how They work. Dad said he never wanted to be involved, but They forced him. He's in the fucking Navy, for God's sake. What does he know about aliens? They’re fueling their bullshit cause and hurting everyone more.”

"They're going to lose," Samantha said. They both turned to look at her, and she felt studiously uncomfortable. "The Syndicate, I mean," she added. "They have no idea what the aliens are like."

Melissa looked confused, but Charlie nodded, a knowing look on his face. "That's why Dana and your brother have to get out of there," he said. "Come in here, and I'll get the chip out. Missy, do you mind if we use your couch?"

"Of course not, why would I mind blood everywhere," Melissa growled, turning away and walking down the hall. “I’m not mad at you, Samantha, by the way,” she called back over her shoulder. “Apparently my family is built on lies.”

"I’ve had over a decade to deal with this stuff, and I’m still pissed off about it, Miss. Get some cotton balls, a small knife, and a Band-Aid, would you?" Charlie called after her. "And tweezers." Samantha followed him into the living room warily. "It'll just take a small cut," Charlie said. "The chip's shallowly under the skin. It shouldn’t hurt too much. If you know what you're doing, you won't bleed all over the place. I know because I did."

"What about Fox and Scully?" Samantha asked. (She'd gotten strangely attached to her apparent sister-in-law.)

"We have to go to the place where they were first abducted," Charlie said. "That's where the chip sends them."

Samantha shook her head. "It doesn't," she said. "At least, mine didn't."

Charlie shrugged. "Maybe you were a special case."

"That would make sense." She'd been a special case, leverage for her father, and besides that, it was the best lead they had. Samantha twisted her thick hair up into a knot to expose the back of her neck. "They were abducted on their first case," she added.

"Here," Melissa said, entering the room. She passed Samantha a hair tie.

"Thanks," Samantha said, in the same slightly amazed way she had as a reflex when someone was nice to her. Captivity did something to you.

"No problem. Be careful," she said to Charlie, fiercely like she knew Samantha well.

He made a face at her - the traditional don't underestimate me look of a younger sibling. "Missy, do you where Dana’s first case was?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't remember."

"Some sister you are."

"Says the brother who left without a word," Melissa retorted bitterly.

Charlie turned away, looking slightly hurt, and quietly asked Samantha if she was ready.

It hurt, but it wasn't the worst pain she'd ever dealt with. She started to hallucinate just before Charlie got the chip out; it was Fox, who hadn't been featured in her hallucinations since she was ten, at least. He was still twelve, and was standing over her, hand out to help her up. "Come on," he said impatiently.

"I can't," Samantha said, closing her eyes against it.

"We've gotta go," he snapped.

"I'm not eight anymore, and you're not twelve," she said.

"We'll always be eight and twelve," he said. "Now, come on. You're going to make us late, you little pest!"

Despite herself, she smiled. Something tugged in the back of her neck, and everything went black for a moment.

When she woke up, she was propped up on Melissa's couch, the back of her neck stinging. "Are you okay?" Melissa asked, feeling her forehead with the back of her hand.

Samantha nodded, trying to remember how she ended up on a stranger's couch, letting them cut into her neck. Her brother, that was how. Maybe this was a long-winded cycle of making up for all the trouble he'd gone to looking for her. "What's our next move?" she asked.

"I thought we should go to Fox and Dana’s apartment and see if they have anything there," Melissa said. "They're weird, maybe they have a-a-a record or something. Like a photo album but for monsters. Call my parents, maybe, and see if they know where Dana’s first case was. They probably will, she was in a car accident while she was there. Or if they don't, Bill will."

"I need to go, actually," Charlie said.

Melissa stared at him with some unexplainable anger on her face. "I can't fucking believe you."

"Missy, I'm sorry," he said. "But I have a family. I have a son. I can't run into gunfire like this. I'm not an FBI agent."

Neither are we, Samantha would point out if she had any place in this conversation.

"Dad said he was calling the FBI," he added. "I'd say you getting the information is enough, you can give it to them and let them do their job."

Melissa's face was stony. "Dana is your sister," she hissed. "And you're not the only one with a family."

"What the hell does that mean? We all have families, Missy," Charlie snapped.

Melissa's face flickered, like she was considering whether or not to tell him something, and then it was stony again. "Fine. Whatever. Do what you want, Charlie."

Charlie's face softened. "Missy, I'm sorry," he added. "For a lot of things."

She nodded, and Charlie left.

Later, when they were in the car, Melissa said, "We don't need him," with a fierce, half-determined rejection. "Screw him. Dad may have been an asshole or whatever, and I'm not completely filled in on all that, and I'm sure Thanksgiving will be awkward as hell, but he shouldn't have left me and Dana without a word."

Overwhelmed, Samantha nodded silently. She could use a fucking nap.

Melissa hesitated before she added, "I thought you should know about something. Dana's pregnant."

Stunned, Samantha felt a little like she'd been hit by a truck. She'd been dragging a pregnant woman all over the country and getting her shot at? Her brother who was permanently twelve in her mind was going to be a father? Well, only if they could figure this out. Maybe they wouldn't. "Oh-okay," she stammered.

(She needed a ten-hour nap when this all was done. And an entire carton of ice cream.)

Melissa put the car into drive and rolled out of the driveway. "Dana's gonna kill me when she found out I told you," she added, fiercely, like the possibility that Scully wouldn't be able to get mad didn't exist. Like she'd read Samantha's mind. "Brace yourself."

***

"Oh," Melissa said suddenly as they reached the apartment. "Dana never gave me a key.”

Well, Samantha obviously didn't have one. "Do you have a bobby pin?" she asked.

"Oh, here." Melissa dug through her purse until she came up with one and passed it over. "You know how to pick a lock?"

"Sure," Samantha said, hunching over the doorknob, using the skills she'd taught herself as a bored ten-year-old with nothing to do on the base they'd kept her on; there had barely been any other kids there, and as nice as Max and Rose had been, it had taken them a while for them to warm up to her. (They'd been withdrawn, lost in grief from the death of her daughter, and had seen Samantha as a replacement as much as she saw them as a replacement for her first parents. They'd been happy, eventually, but it had taken a while for their wounds to heal enough to open up.)

"My brothers knew how," Melissa noted. "They used to break into my closet. They taught Dana, and she broke into theirs in revenge."

Samantha laughed. The door gave way under her hands, swinging open slowly.

As they stepped in, a footstep creaked over the floorboards, and Samantha fumbled for Scully's gun in her waistband. "Who's there?" a low voice said.

Samantha swung the gun around, the butt slipping in her sweaty hands so much she almost dropped it. The kitchen light flicked on, revealing a trio of guys standing there. "Who the hell are you?" the shortest one said.

"This is my sister's apartment," Melissa snapped. "Who the hell are you?"

"Wait, you're Scully's sister?" the one in a suit asked. "Melinda, right?"

"Melissa."

"Right, sorry. We're... friends of Mulder's," the suit said.

"Who's she? Another FBI agent?" the one with long blonde hair asked, pointing at Samantha.

They clearly weren't armed - or weren't going to shoot if they were - so Samantha lowered her gun. "I'm Fox's sister."

The three of them stared in total shock. "You're... you're Samantha?" the short one asked, finally. Samantha nodded, awkwardly. Of course they would know, if they were friends of her brother. "Holy shit," he said, quietly.

"Do you know where they are?" Melissa asked.

"We've been tracking them, actually," the suited man said. "We think they're headed to Oregon."

"That was where Mulder was headed when we tracked him down last," the short man added.

It still felt like she was following the breadcrumb trail of her brother, but never actually seeing him. Is this how he had felt, all these years, looking for her? At least now they knew where he and Scully were headed.

Out of nowhere, the blonde one snorted. "We have a Mulder and a Scully. We just have the wrong ones."

***

The three men were Frohike, Langly, and Byers, apparently called themselves the Lone Gunmen, and were conspiracy-theorists/hackers who distrusted the government exactly the right amount, if not more, which was comforting. The five of them made something of a silent pact to work together. They sat at Fox and Scully’s kitchen table and talked strategy.

"We'll need to fly out to Oregon to beat them there," Byers said. "But I'm guessing we have some time since they're driving."

"That's good," Samantha said, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. "I need some sleep. I'm exhausted."

Melissa drummed her fingers on the table anxiously. "So we're just going to fly out there and try to keep Fox and Dana from dying? What about the other people?"

Frohike cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't think there's anything we can do."

"That's ridiculous," Melissa said, angrily.

Samantha touched the other woman on the shoulder. "Melissa, I've seen plenty of people who get run roughshod by these people," she said softly. "They killed my parents - the people who raised me after my abduction. They abducted our siblings. The best you can hope for, at least at the moment, is to save the people you love." That probably made her a terrible person, but she'd been fighting for years and gained.

Melissa slumped in her seat. "You three," she said, twisting her crystal choker in her fingers and looking at the Gunmen. "You're fighting them, right? You can release some evidence or something?"

"We would if we had anything substantial," Langly said, regretfully.

"We've been fighting this for years with no avail," Frohike added. "It's dangerous."

Melissa groaned, putting her head down. "This entire thing is fucked up," she mumbled.

"We know, Miss Scully," Byers said. "Believe me."

There was really nothing left to say after that. They agreed to call Fox's boss in the morning and get the location of their first case. Melissa took the bed and Samantha took the couch. The Gunmen hovered around the table, refusing to sleep, blue lights glowing in the dark kitchen. Samantha shoved her face into a throw pillow and slept the sleep of the dead.

***

When she woke up, the blonde one, Langly, was shooting her a smile that she was fairly sure was him flirting. (She had no idea why he was flirting; she had probably snored into a pillow all night. And drooled.) “Morning, sunshine,” he said cheerfully.

Frohike whacked him in the arm. “Idiot. That’s Mulder’s sister. Do you want him to murder you?”

(Samantha almost burst out laughing as she shoved the blankets away and sat up; her brother was a formless concept at this point, but she still thought the idea of him beating up his friends for flirting with her was absurd.)

“Says the man who was in love with his girlfriend,” Langly shot back with annoyance, jabbing him in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Frohike hissed, hitting him back, eyes shooting over to Melissa, who rolled her own eyes at Samantha.

“Stop it, both of you,” Byers said. “We’ve got more important things going on right now.”

To their credit, both of them managed to look embarrassed. Melissa stood from her spot at the table. “Coffee?” she asked Samantha.

“Please,” Samantha said, shoving hair out of her eyes. The two-year forced withdrawal from coffee that been miserable; she’d drank it like water before.

Melissa got out a mug from the cabinet. “I’m just picturing Fox and Dana’s reaction when they come home and discover that we’ve eaten all their food and drank all their coffee," she said, motioning spastically with her mug in a probable attempt to indicate that they'd be pissed.

“You know, it’s weird that you call them that,” Frohike commented.

“What, call my sister by her given name? I think it’s weird that you call her by her last name,” Melissa shot back.

“Her boyfriend calls her that,” Langly pointed out.

“And it’s weird.” Melissa shook the mug before settling down and pouring the dark liquid into it.

Samantha came into the kitchen, taking the mug. Secretly, she thought the entire thing was kind of weird. But not necessarily in a bad way.

A pounding knock came at the door out of nowhere. “Agent Mulder!” a man shouted through the door. “Agent Scully!”

The five of them froze in the kitchen. “Who’s that?” Melissa hissed under her breath.

“It could be someone from the FBI,” Byers replied quietly. “He called them Agents.”

Behind them, the pounding continued. The man was shouting for them to open up. It was making Samantha feel nervous, claustrophobic. Like she was back in her cell, and the walls were closing in on her.

“Or it could be a trick,” Frohike replied. “The wrong people from the FBI.”

The other four were staring at each other, completely unsure of what to do. Samantha tried to steady her breathing and not freak out.

There was a sharp sound, like kicking, and the door swung open. A large bald man came in with his gun drawn, followed by a man and woman in a similar position. The Gunmen put their hands up, quickly. Melissa dropped her mug, startled. Samantha gripped the chair in front of her and tried not to scream.

The bald man froze, staring at them. “Who the hell are you?”

“Not this again,” Langly muttered under his breath.

Melissa was the first one to speak. “I’m Dana’s - er, Agent Scully’s - sister. Are you… Walter Skinner? Her boss?”

“Yes,” the bald man said, uncertainly. Behind him, the other two agents lowered their weapons. “We got a tip that Mulder and Scully had been abducted. Do you…” He hesitated, gestured vaguely. “... all know anything about that?”

Something in Samantha’s chest released, and she felt like she could breathe again. “I’m Agent Mulder’s sister,” she said. The same surprised expression she’d gotten used to seeing dawned on Walter Skinner’s face. “I think I can fill you in.”

***

There was another awkward introduction before the brigade that was slowly growing larger and larger settled down in the living room to clear things up. (Skinner introduced the agents with him as, “Agents Doggett and Reyes. You can trust them.”) Samantha explained her experience as best she could, with the Gunmen cutting in to provide information of their own. (Byers looked nervous the entire time, keeping mostly quiet and fiddling with his tie, except to offer up information he had from a woman he refused to name.) Melissa offered up what little information she had - that her father, a Navy man, had been forced to give up his youngest son for abduction, who had eventually taken out his chip.

By the end of it, Skinner looked uncomfortable, but he also looked like he believed them. “This is ridiculous,” said the male agent, Doggett. “What proof do you have of aliens?”

“Personal experience,” Samantha said.

“We have some proof of our own, as well as of the conspiracy,” Frohike added.

Doggett turned to Skinner. “Are you buying any of this, Assistant Director?” he demanded.

Skinner looked as if he was deep in thought. “I’ve thought a lot of things Mulder and Scully have sent across my desk was bullshit,” he said. “But this… this, I can’t deny. I’ve seen too much proof of it over the years. In the people I’ve dealt with personally, and the things I’ve seen Mulder and Scully go through. I know there's a conspiracy. And with two of my best agents in danger... I can't afford to ask questions."

“You helped them get out of prison,” Byers said, seriously. “You must’ve known there was something off.”

Skinner nodded. He turned towards Samantha, addressing her directly. “Miss Mulder?”

It was still strange to be called that, after years of being a Rutherford. “Yes, sir?” she said gingerly.

“After all this is over, I’ll do my best to make sure you get justice for everything that’s happened for you,” he said. “Including the death of your caretakers. Would you be willing to testify against everything you’ve experienced?”

She had to - for her family, for revenge for her second parents. “Yes,” she said.

He nodded. “We’ll need to figure all of this out,” he said. “The conspiracy, how to expose it. But I think that’s a job that Agents Mulder and Scully will be crucial in. And for now, we need to make sure they, and hopefully nobody else, won’t die in the midst of all this." He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "You said that… these people… go back to the places where they’ve formerly been abducted?”

Samantha nodded. “From my knowledge, they’ll focus on mass abduction sites,” she said. “Was their first case a mass abduction case?”

“Yes, in Bellefleur, Oregon.” Skinner paused. “Agent Doggett, Agent Reyes, I’d like you to fly out to Bellefleur, as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Agent Reyes said immediately. Doggett looked mildly uncomfortable, but he didn’t protest.

“What are you going to be doing, sir?” Melissa wanted to know.

“Doing my best to stop all this." Skinner sighed, shaking his head. "Your father was the one to contact me, right? How much information would he have?”

“I’m not sure, but he’d help,” she said. “My brother, Charlie, could help, too. I think he’s still in town.”

"Okay," Skinner said. "Okay, I'm going to go now. Doggett, Reyes, I need you on the next flight to Oregon."

"Yes, sir," Reyes said immediately. Doggett nodded.

"Good," Skinner said, running a hand over his face. He still sounded awkward, like he didn't know how to process any of this. "How the hell do these two get into this much trouble," he muttered to himself before muttering some goodbyes and leaving.

"Okay," Doggett said awkwardly in Skinner's absence, standing from his spot on the couch. "Thank you for the tip. We'll call you if you want when we find them..."

"Wait, we're coming with you," Melissa said, matter-of-factly. Simply, no room for argument.

"You can't," Doggett said.

"Yes, we can. We're family," she replied simply, crossing her arms over her chest. (Samantha was a little surprised that she included the Gunmen - but then again, they seemed close enough to Fox that she doubted he'd mind.)

"This is FBI business," Doggett tried in a sympathetic, firm way.

"Listen, buddy, we're going up there with your permission or not," Frohike said loudly, more confidently than he probably felt. "That was our plan all along."

Doggett looked like he wanted to say more, but Reyes interrupted him. "Look, John, what could it hurt to have them fly up there with us?" she asked, getting to her feet and laying a hand on his arm. "It's their right. Their siblings and friends in the balance."

Doggett sighed. "All right," he said. "But I don't want you interfering with the investigation."

"Yes, sir," Byers said quickly. He gave Frohike and Langly a meek but firm this-is-what-will-get-us-places look when they glared at him.

"Thank you," Melissa said, a stunned sort of gratefulness.

Reyes smiled and extended her hand towards her. "Monica Reyes, by the way."

"Melissa Scully," she said, shaking it.

***

They get caught in a layover at the airport that takes seven hours, but Frohike reassures an anxious Melissa and Samantha by showing them the tracking devices on Scully’s and Fox’s cars. “Mulder’s closer, but there’s plenty of time before they get there,” he says. “We’ll be fine. Between this layover and this flight, we’ll get there around the time they do.”

The words seem to calm Melissa considerably. Then she lays into Frohike for having trackers on her sister’s car.

“We thought it might be convenient if anything ever happened to them,” he says, meekly. “And look. We were right.”

The plane ride just takes a couple hours. The FBI agents make Samantha tense at first, but she relaxes eventually; Doggett seems suspicious, but nice enough aside from that, and Reyes is increasingly sweet. She and Melissa hit it off. ("I've always admired Agent Mulder and your sister," she says. "Their work on the X-Files. I studied mythology and folklore in college." "Is that why Skinner brought you?" Melissa asks. "Probably," Reyes says, half laughing.) The Gunmen keep mostly to themselves. Samantha relaxes enough to fall asleep for most of the plane ride.

There is an awkward, wordless exchange between Doggett and Reyes on whether they should take the other five or not. Reyes finally suggests, out loud, that they rent a car and see what they can do. They rent a large van that is decidedly un-FBI looking. Doggett ends up driving and Samantha ends up in the passenger seat. Even though it feels pointless and juvenile, she scans the roads for any sign of Scully or Fox.

Bellefleur, Oregon is brisk and tastes like the salt air. Doggett and Reyes insist on going to the local police station.They both disappear inside, and don't reappear for almost half an hour. Melissa gets restless, muttering under her breath and drumming her fingers on the center console. Her anxiousness resembles the twisting of Samantha's insides into a tight, worried knot. "Local police aren't going to be any help," Doggett says when they get into the car, annoyed. "A Detective Miles got real anxious and barreled out of there, but the rest of them just were unresponsive."

"All we got is that the abductions were in the woods," Reyes says.

"Well, let's go out there!" Frohike says insistently. "They're here, they've been here for hours."

Doggett starts the car. "Our objective is to get the abductees in and out," he says as they drive towards the forest."Agent Reyes and I will go into the woods. You five stay in the car."

"What?" Melissa spits.

"We can't take civilians into a dangerous area," Reyes says gently. "I'm sorry." Her eyes meet Melissa's regretfully.

"We've been in dangerous situations for most of our lives," Langly says bitterly. "I knew we shouldn’t have trusted other Feds."

Doggett snorts, looking at them the rearview mirror. Samantha’s hand brushes over the butt of Scully's gun. She hates feeling this helpless. Hates it.

"I promise we'll get your friends out safely," Doggett says, not unkindly. "We just can't be worried about you all when we're in this thing fighting."

Melissa mutters something vicious under her breath. The Gunmen are silent, except when Byers offers up a, "Their cars are parked at the edge of the woods."

Doggett pulls to a stop on the side of the road. Ahead of them, an orange X is on the road. Further ahead, two cars sit abandoned. Samantha recognizes the one Scully had left her in. "That's them," Frohike says.

Doggett and Reyes pull their guns and get out of the car. Suddenly, light streams through the window. Samantha claps a hand to the back of her neck, but the telltale buzzing isn't there. She lets down the window and sticks her head out. A UFO hovers over the treetops.

Reyes's face is open and full of wonder. "Holy mother of God," Doggett says, hushed and bewildered. The two of them sprint into the woods.

Melissa's face is just as full of wonder as Reyes's. "Wow," she whispers.

"If only Mulder were here to see this," Langly says. The three of them are clustered around the window.

"He is," Frohike snaps. "That's the problem."

Samantha sticks her head further back, craning her head to watch. Something launches into the sky, hitting the ship in the side. It falters, almost turning completely on its side. Samantha sucks in a breath, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. The ship rights itself and fires back.

"No!" Melissa's hand hits the window. Samantha fumbles for the door handle. A section of the woods explodes into flames.

"Call the fire department," Samantha gasps, shoving the door open. She nearly falls out.

Melissa jumps out beside her, scrambling across the grass. "Dana!" she shouts.

Above them, a beam shoots down. Samantha wants to scream.

Doggett and Reyes appear and the edge of the woods with a cluster of teenagers. They have the glazed-over look of the chip; one tries to turn and go back into the woods. "Melissa, stay back!" Reyes yells. "There's still some more in there, we're going back in! We'll find them!"

Melissa ignores her, barreling into the woods calling her sister's name. Samantha follows, yanking Scully’s gun out.

Her throat burns with smoke. Above them, the Syndicate floats into the light.

Her brother had shouted her name when she'd floated into the light. He'd tried to get her father's gun. He'd tried to save her. Samantha blinks in the orange haze, gripping her sister-in-law's gun. Dana, Melissa screams beside her.

"Fox!" Samantha calls. ***

Scully walks towards the light. She reaches for Mulder's hand, but she can't move it. This can't happen, she wants to say. This can't happen to us.

The ground shakes. The beam moves off of them. Everything goes black.

When Scully comes to, she's lying prone on the ground, hair hanging over her face. Smoke chokes her throat. Flames are everywhere. She pulls herself off the ground, scanning the bright of the forest. She stumbles to her feet, staggering forward. She thinks she hears her name on the wind: Dana!

Then she sees him.  

"Mulder," she whispers, going down on her knees beside him. He mumbles something that might be her name, face turning into the dirt.

She reaches for him and the world shifts around her: Mulder crumpled in a field, Mulder bleeding out in an alley, Mulder slumped over in a car seat, soaked with sweat, dying. She hauls him into her arms, onto her lap. He curls around her, burying his face in her neck. The heat's all around her but she can't move them both. "I need help," she calls, weakly, but her voice is a strangled rasp. Mulder whimpers against her throat. She presses her face into his ashy hair.

They end up stretched out on the ashy grass, the same forest where they'd met. She holds him closer, kissing his forehead, his hair. She can't move, but she needs to. Mulder. The baby. "Help," she croaks, trying to scream.

"Scully?" An unfamiliar/familiar voice. She crawls fully on top of Mulder in an attempt to protect him before she recognizes it. "Jesus Christ," Samantha murmurs, hooking her hands under her armpits and hauling her up.

"Dana!" Missy's voice, but she can't be here. She tries to tell her that, but coughs instead. She stumbles to the side, unable to stand upright.

"Melissa, can you help her out of here?" Samantha says from somewhere near her. "Fox? Fox, you have to wake up. We have to go."

Scully feels her arm hooked over her older sister's shoulders as she's dragged out of the burning forest. Her vision is spotty and her breathing is harsh.

It all begins in Oregon, or ends in Oregon, and they are dead, they are alive, and Mulder’s being taken, and she’s kissing him in a hotel room, and the light is washing them out, swallowing them whole. It’s Oregon, goddamn Oregon. It’s always been Oregon.

She and William walk up the sunny path to his school, hand in hand. “First day of school. You nervous?” she asks her son, all bright eyes and messy hair. He shakes his head, practically bouncing with eagerness. He is at the stage where school is still an exciting adventure. “Your hands are sweaty,” she teases, shaking their joined hands between them.

He yanks his away, studying his palm with scrutiny. “Ew! That's you!”

She laughs, turning to face him - her son, in all his first-grade-glory. “What's the most important thing to remember?”

“Sit still, listen, say excuse me when you fart,” he ticks off proudly.

She laughs again - William is his father's son. And hers, her miracle. “The most important thing to remember... is that I love you. That's all you have to remember.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead.

He's looking at her seriously when she pulls back - his Scully look, Mulder calls it. “There's something you have to remember, too, Mommy.”

“What's that?” she teases, pushing his hair back.

“That this is realer than you think.”

Boggs said the same thing to her in a warehouse one time, and this isn't… “Oh, God,” she whispers, falling to her knees in front of William and hugging him tightly. “This isn't real. You aren't real. My baby, this is all in my head.”

“I'm realer than you think,” William says in his small voice, drawing back and pressing his fingers to her abdomen, a feather touch, and this, this is where the earth falls out from beneath her. “I love you, Mommy.” He kisses her forehead.

Something shifts and pulls and tugs in the back of her neck, and then a triumphant voice: “Got it out.”

“William,” she whispers, darkness swirling like a living entity, real and malevolent, swallowing her whole. Her son is here but he isn't real and she's going to have a baby. Oh, God, she's going to have a baby. “William.”

[csolarstormhealthjournal]

I’m afraid of the femur pain.  It abused me so much last night, I will stay in bed today as much as it might take to recuperate.  I’m afraid of it in approximately three ways, I think.  First, I don’t want to experience it.  A sharp bone fragment is poking my muscles and nerves and it feels like that.  It feels like my leg is asking to come off.  A telling moment about this is Diane drawing the distinction last night between being in pain and being sick.  I wish she asked herself why I took for granted that there was no distinction.  For me, this pain is making me sick.  The strain of holding off two or three waves of neuropathy for an hour had me nauseated and hot last night.  It had me fatigued and beat up.

Honestly, I don’t make a big distinction in general between...well, instances of bodily disrepair.  In a way, I generalize death and disadvantage so much, that even depression, even the flaws that make it hard to fight off disrepair, to support your loved ones, classifies as a state of disrepair to me.  One of my big poems is called “Death and Disadvantage” where the implication is that disadvantage is a kind of death.  Some of it comes from high school where my infections hounded me so much, I felt like I was a goner so often even BEFORE I actually finally had a near-death experience at the end of the year around my birthday.  Then, the rumor went around at school that I had died.  And I kind of felt like a zombie, because PTSD, making me stuck drawing pictures of the force of death that was I felt was hunting me.  Every time I got sick or hurt, I felt it approaching.  I felt like it was winning. 

The first time I think I felt this mindset, when I think of it in the context of now, was when I felt out of my wheelchair in the backyard and bent my leg backward.  I remember freaking the hell out because I was convinced that I had ruined my leg forever.  It was very similar to my hysterical reaction last year when I broke my left leg in that wheelchair crash.  I felt a permanence about both events, even when I was sixteen, even before that NDE later that year, as if I had a mental reason to take for granted that my leg was never coming back from what I did.

And this mindset has varied in different ways.  In 2007, it was in a way consuming me, as the feeling of approaching death in the form of the Spinal-Fusion was something I had to cope with somehow.  I reconciled with it in different ways.  In a way, it became such a presence that it was poisoning me, the way I saw other people, my worldview, my morals.  Other people didn’t really understand the way I was seeing the world in terms of fearing death and not fearing death; people seemed either appropriately traumatized or foolish.  Then the Spinal-Fusion kind of took a lot of this and played it out to the extreme, so that my perception of death and disadvantage came, ate me, spat me out.  As of 2009 once the two years of suffering played out, I adopted a more feral approach to these fears with the determination to fight them tooth and nail, stave them off, FullMetal Brotherhood style.

So it’s not that what’s happening now hasn’t happened before.  On the contrary, in 2013, I probably had more stuff going wrong.  But this femur pain seems like the ultimate form of “you’re screwed this time”.  Because what can you do?  The doctor almost certainly should not open up the leg again, because we barely got it to close last time.  It’s not even an issue of not having any structural option to take out the rest of the femur, which I don’t think he would do; it’s an issue of the leg every closing up after cutting into it.  The leg is, in a sense, nearing its last leg. 

I’m starting to fear that as I get older, this chessboard of encroaching health problems that I’ve felt since college is getting more spacious.  I’m feeling all these different issues assemble in their respective forms of bad disrepair.  What happens when they get here all at once?  When my malrotated intestines don’t let me eat enough to avoid the electrolyte imbalance that makes me feel like sleeping, between breathing issues from chronic pneumonia, while I have to do everything from bed because my hip literally can’t take being in my chair for more than hour, and I’m taking antibiotics every six hours for my infections until I have to go to the ER to get IV antibiotics?  I went to special ed school and I knew other handicapped kids, and so I know it’s failure of logistics that kills handicapped people, often.  Hell, it’s failure of logistics that kills normal people.  Christopher Reeves died of freaking bedsores, something that should have been prevented by turning him over, but Monty Oum died from a petty allergic reaction!

And even worse, the same chessboard is closing in on my parents too.  My caretakers, the only people who know how to take care of me, are now racing me to the end.  Do you know how terrifying that is?  To know that people who have already revealed their flaws in the ability to support me when I’m suffering, who stormed out of the room angry when I wouldn’t sit up a couple of days after my Spinal-Fusion when I felt like my whole body was alien to me to the point we needed family counseling, people who left a heavy light fixture hanging above me when I was stuck in bed because they didn’t want to finish it because they wanted to go back to the bar, people who know that I have some painful mental health problem but won’t confront me over it because of either baggage over their inability to get help or sympathy for their own mental health issues or a sense of pride or status quo that I should just be content with them helping me survive, people who I know and love despite understanding their shortcomings and having a rough approximation of what stretches them to their limits because I roughly know and acknowledge their hurtful pasts as peers to me rather than as monolithic caretakers -

(I mean, it’s not like I blame them anymore, but the point is I know better, I know the flaws that make it difficult for me to trust them with my care in the same way that I did when when I was a kid.  I trust Diane and Dorothy in ways that are more nuanced now, more informed, and more balanced with my care for them as peers.)

- to know that these people are slowly getting to the point where they might likely be able to take care of me even less as I need more help - this is not funny.  This is a bad future.  And I'm scared.  I need to make money and more support just to take care of my family, because there will come a point when the pressure gets so bad that the instance where one of us might break will be so painful, so inhumane that the day might feel like any of us could break, and only one of us will.  I understand the prospect of us breaking, but I will be as feral as I can, fight as much as I can against the disadvantage drawing it out so that life around that point is hell.  

But I’m scared that this femur pain will be more and more unforgiving, and I’ll be able to do less and less.  As it is, last night I spent five hours out of the house, and it kicked my ass and made me literally sick.  The scary part is I’m not stuck in bed.  Maybe this is my normal pain.  The scenario I’m scared of is that the normal is getting worse.

[flowermandalas]

Guest Post: “Waiting to Die”

NOTE: This is a guest post by Kenneth Ring, PhD. Dr. Ring is an internationally recognized authority on near-death experiences. His writings on this phenomenon include five books and nearly 100 articles about near-death experiences. He is the co-founder of the International Association for Near-Death Studies (IANDS) and is the founding editor of the Journal of Near-Death Studies. Dr. Ring’s book Heading Toward Omega, the Journal of Near-Death Studies, and IANDS were all very important to me following my own NDE in 1993, and I’m honored to have him as a guest.

Waiting to Die © 2017, Kenneth Ring

The bright realization that must come before death will be worth all the boredom of living. – Ned Rorem

What’s it like, waiting to die? Of course, it’s different for everyone. I can only say what it’s like for me. On the whole, it’s rather boring.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have many pleasures in life and – knock on silicon – I’m lucky not to be suffering from any fatal illness, though if I were, that would certainly add some drama in my life. I could then follow the example of the poet Ted Rosenthal, who after contracting leukemia, joyfully called his friends and said, “Guess what’s happened to me!” Well, no thanks. I’ll take my boring life any day and intone a hymn of gratitude every morning I wake up with only the ordinary indignities of an old man – coughing, wheezing and sneezing, and, oh, my aching back!

But still….I’m used to having productive work — writing books, helping other authors with their books, being involved in various professional pursuits, and so forth. But recently I published my last book, which I puckishly entitled, Pieces of My Mind Before I Fall to Pieces, which was a kind of potpourri of stories and interests from my later years, and just after that I wrote what I expect to be my last professional article, the foreword to a colleague’s memoir. Now what? More precisely, what do I do with my time now that I have clearly entered the epilogue to my life? Honestly, I feel as if I have stepped over the threshold into my afterlife before dying.

Of course, I can watch films – I’ve become quite a “film buff” in my later years; I still have interesting books to read. I am blessed with a wonderful girlfriend. Still, since life has become a spectator sport for me, and I can no longer travel, except locally, I find that I am spending more time on my sofa, honing my couch potato skills, watching sports. Yet I must confess that even they have lost a good deal of their zest for me. My home town baseball team, The San Francisco Giants, finished in the cellar last year; in golf, Tiger has gone away; in basketball, Michael Jordan is long gone; and in tennis, which is now the only sport I follow with some avidity, it is chiefly because of the great Roger Federer. Nevertheless, I can only wonder how long he can at 36 continue to produce one miracle after another? Surely, he, too, will begin his inevitable decline soon, and with his descent from the heights of glory, my interest in tennis will also flag. So what will be left then? I will tell you.

The body. Mine. It has already become my principal preoccupation and bête-noire. These days, I can’t help recalling that St. Francis referred to the body as “brother ass.” It seems I now spend most of my time in doctors’, chiropractors’ or dentists’ clinics, as they strive to preserve my decaying body parts by inflicting various forms of torture on me that would even impress Torquemada, or doing physical therapy in what is most likely a vain attempt to delay the encroaching onset of wholesale physical deterioration. Really, is this any way to run a navy? There are many days when I think the only surgery that will preserve me would be a complete bodyectomy.

Well, okay, I realize this is only par for the course of the everyday life of an octogenarian. Wasn’t it Bette Davis who famously said “old age is no place for sissies?” It isn’t for wimps like me either, it seems. (I can often be heard crooning, “turn back the hands of time….”) Still, I wouldn’t go so far as the saturnine Philip Roth who said that old age is “a massacre.” I guess at his point I find myself somewhere between Davis and Roth, but the waiting game still seems to be a losing proposition and I might very well come to think of my current boredom as the halcyon days of my decline.

Nevertheless, consider a typical day in the life of this old wheezing geezer.

It begins with the back. Every day does. In the morning, you get up, but your back doesn’t. It hurts. Even though you take a hot shower before bed, by the time you wake up your back has decided to take the day off. When you try to use it, as for example, when you bend over to pick up the comb you’ve dropped into the toilet, it begins to complain.

And finally, it gets so bad, you have to lie down on your once neatly made bed, remove half your clothing, and apply some ice to it while listening to mindless music and cursing the day when some enterprising hominid decided it would be a good idea to change from the arboreal life to a bipedal one. Big mistake. The next one was the invention of agriculture, but never mind. We were talking about the back and its vicissitudes.

Nevertheless, a little later, you decide to take your body out of a spin. “Don’t look back,” the great Satchel Paige advised, “something might be gaining on you.” In my case, it’s the man with the scythe whom I hope to outstrip for a few more years.

Of course, the back, which had only been moaning quietly before now begins to object vociferously, asking sourly, “what the hell are you thinking?” Nevertheless, you press on, thinking your will will prevail, and your back can go to hell.

But the next dispiriting thing you notice are all these chubby old ladies whizzing by you as if they are already late for their hair appointments. How humiliating – to be passed by these old biddies! You think about the days in junior high when you were a track star, setting school records in the dashes and anchoring the relay races, which you used to run in your bare feet. Then you ran like the wind. These days, you are merely winded after trudging a hundred yards.

When you can go no further, you turn around only to become aware of still another distressing sight. Actually, it is your sight – or lack of it. It ain’t working. You could see pretty well after your corneal surgery last year, but now you can’t see worth shit. What is that ahead of you? Is it a woolly mammoth, a Saint Bernard or merely a burly ex-football player? Where are the eyes of yesteryear? Gone missing. Well, they didn’t give me any guarantees as to how long my vision would last before it decided, like my back, to begin to object to its continued use outdoors. The way of all flesh doesn’t stop with the flesh; it continues with the cornea, so now I am cursing the darkness in the middle of a miasmal morning.

I finally arrive home in a disconsolate mood, but now it is time to hop onto my stationary bike, which is the only kind I have ever been able to ride since my balance is worse than that of an elderly inebriate on New Year’s Eve. I used to be able to pedal reasonably fast and for a long time. But lately someone must have snuck in to affix some kind of a brake to the bike since suddenly it seems that I am pumping uphill at an acute angle. Heart rate is up, speed is down, my old distance marks are a treasured memory, which I can only mourn. All I am aware of now is the sound of someone huffing and puffing.

At last the torture is over, but now I really have to piss. That damn enlarged prostate of mine has no patience – it must be satisfied now! I race into the bathroom, unzip my fly before it is too late, and make sure, because I have my girlfriend’s admonitions in my ears as I piss that she will behead me if I continue to treat the floor as an auxiliary pissoir, I am pissing very carefully into the toilet bowl. Of course, these days, my urinary stream is a sometimes thing. It starts, it stops, it pauses to refresh itself, it pulses, stops, dribbles, starts up again with what seems to be its last mighty effort to produce something worthwhile and finally drips itself into extinction.

I’m relieved, however, because at least I haven’t soiled my pants this time. But wait. What is that? Pulling up my pants, I can feel some urine on my left thigh. How the hell did it get in there? Is there some kind of silent secondary stream that runs down the side of my leg when I am otherwise preoccupied with trying to keep my penile aim from going astray?

Now I have to find a towel to wipe off the offending liquid and just hope my girlfriend won’t say, when I return to the kitchen, “what is that funny smell, darling?”

Well, you get the idea. Life is no longer a bowl of cherries, or if it is, some of them are turning rotten. And naturally I can’t help wondering how long I have to go before I really cross that final threshold over the unknown. For years, I’ve joked that I’ve wanted to live to be 1000 – months – old. Now I’m at 984 and counting. I’m getting close, and it’s no longer just a joke.

And of course I now also have to wonder what will be next? I mean, after I die, assuming I will ever get around to it.

Well, in my case, I have some inklings because I’ve spent half my life researching and writing about near-death experiences and in the course of my work I’ve interviewed hundreds of people who have told me what it was like for them to die – at least for a few moments – before returning to life. And what they have told me has been, I am frank to admit, profoundly reassuring.

I remember one woman who said that in order to grasp the feeling of peace that comes with death you would have to take the thousand best things that ever happened to you, multiply them by a million and maybe, she said (I remember her emphasis on the word, “maybe”), you could come close to that feeling. Another man said that if you were to describe the feelings of peace that accompanied death, you would have to write it in a letters a mile high. All this might sound hyperbolic, but I have heard such sentiments from many near-death experiencers. Here’s just one more specific quote from a man I knew very well for many years, telling me what it was like for him to die:

It was a total immersion in light, brightness, warmth, peace, security….I just immediately went into this beautiful bright light. It’s difficult to describe….Verbally, it cannot be expressed. It’s something which becomes you and you become it. I could say “I was peace, I was love.” I was the brightness. It was part of me….You just know. You’re all-knowing – and everything is a part of you. It’s just so beautiful. It was eternity. It’s like I was always there and I will always be there, and my existence on earth was just a brief instant.

After listening to so many people describe what it was like for them to die, it is easy for me to imagine what it might be like for me – for anyone – to take that final journey. And many great writers have said much the same thing as those I have interviewed have told me about what is in store when we die. Walt Whitman, for example, who wrote “And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death.” And Herman Melville, with even more eloquence, said, “And death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the death could adequately tell.” It seems that in our own time, these authors from the death are today’s near-death experiencers, and the revelations they have shared with us appear fully to support the claims of these famous 19th century American authors.

So having immersed myself in the study of near-death experiences for so many years, I’m actually looking forward to my passage when my time comes. Still, I’m not looking forward to the dying part. In that regard, I’m with Woody Allen who quipped, “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” I just hope that all those stories I’ve heard about how wonderful death itself is aren’t some kind of a spiritual trompe l’oeil, a cosmic joke played by a malevolent god. Or as that marvelously antic diarist and composer, Ned Rorem, whimsically jested, “If, after dying, I discover there is no Life After Death, will I be furious?”

Of course, when I am faced with the imminence of death, I hope I’ll be able to comport myself with some equanimity, but who knows? Think of Seneca who wrote so eloquently about suicide, and then horribly botched his own. Well, naturally, I’m not planning to hasten my death by such extravagant means, though I wouldn’t refuse a kind offer of a little help from my doctor friends to ease me on my way if I’m having trouble giving birth to my death. It can, after all, be a labor-intensive enterprise. I just hope I can find myself on that stairway to heaven I’ve heard so much about and can manage to avoid a trip in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, when did you say Federer will be playing his next match?

Books by David J. Bookbinder Paths to Wholeness: Fifty-Two Flower Mandalas 52 (more) Flower Mandalas: An Adult Coloring Book for Inspiration and Stress Relief 52 Flower Mandalas: An Adult Coloring Book for Inspiration and Stress Relief Paths to Wholeness: Selections (free eBook) … and coming soon, The Art of Balance: Staying Sane in an Insane World

http://ift.tt/2jZA4o8 http://ift.tt/2oskRQ1 http://ift.tt/2ospoC2 http://ift.tt/2osp7Pj

from Guest Post: “Waiting to Die”