The Beginning.

[x-psylocke.livejournal.com]

Dangerous Liasons.



Her other senses tell her that someone is in the kitchen. But she cannot feel them. As she stands in the doorway, listening. She realizes, it can only be him, the shadow. She moves forward, all the while, gathering up her nerve.

“Ms Braddock. Good evening.” Nathan Essex smiles up at the young woman.

“Dr. Essex.” Elisabeth nods her head to his greeting. She walks inside the kitchen, aware that they are the only ones here. “What brings you out at this late hour?”

He takes a sip from his coffee, “I have an experiment that is going to require attention in a few hours. I find it much easier to stay awake then nap. Something from my days as an intern.”

“A habit hard to break, I’m sure.” She's about to ask him about his days as an intern, but falters as her eagerness gets the best of her. “How much…”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, “How much?”

Good one, Betts. She silently curses herself for her awkwardness. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous about what I'm about to ask.”

"Nervous?" Essex put down his cup of coffee, regarding her carefully. "Ms Braddock, I assuming you're not here to ask for change for the soda machine."

“Definitely not.” She takes a deep breath and making sure to pace herself. “Well. How much of your prior research dealt with corrective measures of damaged organs. Regenerative…” She pauses again. “Damn.”

"Damaged organs. I assume you are referring to your eyes?"

An amused expression comes across her face as she answers, “unless you ask some of the students who refer to my cold-heart. But yes, I am referring to my eyes.”

"Cold heart? And here I thought I had the lock on that. Pity. I really must campaign more." Essex looked into the coffee cup before picking it up and pouring it into the sink.

Betsy lets out a laugh, despite her nervousness and weary expression. "Americans can't seem to grasp British humor and wit."

“Well, this is hardly a discussion for the kitchen. If you'd care to follow me." Essex turned and made his way towards the second floor.

She nods her head solemnly. "Of course."

"I dare say it's the television." Essex said gravely, heading up the stairs and turning left, down the hall. "I believe I have a room up here somewhere. Ah." He slipped a key into the door and opened it.

Behind him, Betsy comments smugly. "It seems you spend more time in your lab than you think."

"It's safer that way. The walls are thin and I believe that Frost woman has a room on this floor." Essex shut the door behind them. "Not an experience that I'd enjoy sharing, I must say. Drink?"

The room is cooler than room temperature, and Betsy refrains from hugging herself to keep warm. "Please." She stands just inside the doorway, unable to maneuver around the room, she asks innocently. “Do you have things that you want to keep from Emma?”

Essex builds two gins from a well-appointed sideboard, and moves toward his seat. "Actually, there are things I'd rather have her keep from me, like her nighttime endeavors. The lab is soundproof, my room is not."

Essex stops as she looks about and mutters. "My apologies. The chair is to your right, about sixteen inches."

"Thank you." Betsy takes two small steps to her right and places her hand on the arm of a wooden chair. She sits down, waiting for Essex's questions, a man of science, he does what is natural to him.

Essex places the drink at the side table at her elbow and sits back into his own chair. "You are looking to restore your sight."

Turning her head to the sound of glass making contact with the table. She reaches for her drink, as Essex withdraws to his chair. "I've heard that research using mutant genetics can make this possible. I'm just checking with a credible source, if it is even possible with.....damage so extent."

"There are... therapies, yes. Avenues that can be explored." Essex sips from his drink. "Tell me about your injuries?"

Betsy takes a healthy sip of the gin in her hand and pauses. "It was about a year ago, I was in a fight and suffice it to say, I lost." She takes a deep breath and begins to recite the events, as a clinician would. "Extensive head trauma and severe retinal damage was the prognosis."

"I was in rehabilitation where the best doctors said there was nothing to be done and that I should acclimate myself to my circumstances. That I should be lucky to be alive." She says the last part bitterly. Betsy drains the glass and returns it to the stand, turning to face Essex with a dark expression. "But, after recent events, I don't want to acclimate myself to this."

"Was the damage to the optic nerve or to the eyeball itself? Or both?"

Behind her shades, she closes her eyes, and takes a moment to respond. “Both.”

"And you've been totally blind since that time?"

"As so far as human sight, I have been. But I have been using my telepathic abilities to guide me, almost like sonar, if you may." She turns her head angrily, "But there are setbacks."

"Such as now." Essex says mildly, sipping his gin.

“Yes.” Her mouth quirks into a smile at his acknowledgment, that the shadow would give this concession to her. But she continues. "I have always been able to turn my gifts on or off, but now, as I've been using my abilities to survive, it has allowed for a receptibility to everyone's thoughts and I'm having trouble closing off." Betsy lets out a frustrated sigh, as she leans back into the chair. "To say the least, it makes sleeping quite difficult."

"I can imagine." Essex replies calmly. The sheer fact that he failed to register at all to her made him seem like a voice in the dark. "There are options, of course, but there are also dangers."

Keeping her eagerness from her voice, she prompts him. "Such as..."

"If it were simply a case of your eyes, the procedure would be much simpler. We could grow substitutes and transplant them. It would take some time, and there would be degeneration, but it's a fairly straight forward solution." He pauses for a moment, "However, if your blindness involves head tramua, the root damage could be either in the optic nerve, or in the brain itself. That is a much different beast. Add your telepathic abilities on top of that, and you have a area in which we cannot reasonably predict the consequences of tampering."

Taking in his tone of voice, as her only indicator to his rationale, Betsy shakes her head at her foolishness. This can’t possibly work, she tells herself.

"So, the real question is how much are you willing to risk for your sight?"

Lost at his line of questioning, she asks. "What do you mean? What kind of risk?

"In attempting to restore your vision, and correct the damage, there is a very real chance that you could suffer side-effects to your psychic abilities. Even risk mental blindness. The brain is not like the rest of the body, which you can tinker with. Especially with psions, there are factors at work which we cannot track. As a doctor, I am required to tell you the risks that you will face. Can such a thing be done? I have every belief that I can design a procedure that will help you, if not fully restore your sight, at least correct some of the damage. However, there is a danger at you must decide if you are willing to accept."

She pales slightly at his words, "I understand."

"Ms Braddock, I don't wish to frighten you. There are a number of avenues that we can take. Perhaps some less invasive forms that could make slight improvements without any risk. But to fully restore your sight will be a gamble, and it's your psionics gifts that are the wager." Essex finished his drink. "In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say."

Elisabeth bows her head at this, weighing her options. "I'd still be willing to listen to what you have to say, Dr. Essex. If you're willing to help me with this."

"Certainly. Ms Braddock." Essex got up and refreshed his drink. Unbidden, he did the same from Betsy. "How familiar are you with anatomy?"

"I have a fair grasp of human anatomy. Why do you ask?"

"It makes it easier to explain. Your brain sits in a briny suspension, receiving input from all the senses. Each sense enters the brain through a different port. Now, with the optic nerve, the port, so to speak, exists very close to an area that we believe houses the network which allows your psionic abilities to function."

Betsy starts to say something, but refrains, choosing instead to listen to Essex's explanation.

"So, there are several possible ways that link could be broken. The nerve itself could be damaged, like a mangled cord trying to transmit electricity. Or, it could be the brain itself, the port, simply failling to receive what is being transmitted. Or, it could be that the connection is severed; cut off. Or, it could be all three."

She asks quietly. “And if it is, does the possibility becomes extremely diminished, to rectify the damage...”

"Actually, not so. You see, if it is merely the optic nerve, or the connection between the nerves and the brain, it is much safer to tamper with. It's the 'port' itself that is the danger. If we guess wrong, or alter the balance with the areas around it in our procedure, we could affect the region, which controls your psionic abilities. That is the danger."

Frustrated, at the possibilities, Betsy unconsciously finds her hand around her glass again. "Then how would we proceed in cataloging the exact damage?"

"Examinations. Perhaps even exploratory surgery." Essex said, steepling his fingers. "It could take some time."

She leans forward with her elbows on her thighs and grimaces, "Alright."

"Are you saying that you would like to proceed?"

Betsy turns her head up, for the first time this evening. Her face is cold, expressionless, "Yes."

"Off to a new horizon then. 'And forward he stoop'd over the airy shore, and plung'd all noiseless into the deep night.'" Essex held his glass up in a mock toast and drained it.

With the glass in her hand, Betsy tips it forward and follows in his toast. She returns the glass to the stand and rises, "I only pray that I'll be able to enjoy that new day when it comes, Doctor."

"It is a world of possibilities, Ms Braddock? Shall I assist you out?"

"Thank you, but I can find my way." She heads for the door, without turning back, like a lost soul who has just signed their life away to the Devil.

"Ms Braddock. Tomorrow afternoon. If you'd like to visit the medical station, I'll need to do some examinations before I can start to devise a program." Seeing her expression, Essex smiled thinly. "Don't worry. I promise not to subject you to anything... sinister."

Elisabeth stops at this, but without turning, she replies. "I have the utmost faith that you won't. Good Evening, Doctor." With that, Betsy exits his room and returns to her quarters. The nightly chill set deep into her bones.