Email to Doctor Moira McTaggert

[airlock]

To: [e-mail]
From: [e-mail]
Subject: The Worthington Cure

Doctor McTaggert

Please forgive me for this rather direct approach, but I would be interested in obtaining your professional opinion on my particular problem.

I received a shot of the Worthington Cure some eight months ago, however, I am convinced that its effects are wearing off, and at a rather rapid rate. A friend of mine suggested to me that it possibly had something to do with the regular medication that I have to take (I am a haemophiliac and take thrice-daily injections of Factor IX).

I am an architect, not a geneticist, but I wondered if you had done any such research into this and can advise me whether I can expect the Cure to wear off totally, or whether this is some sort of temporary glitch.

I apologise once again for the direct approach, but sincerely hope you can help me.

Regards,


Lars Anderssen
Project Manager
Kennedy Associates

[Admin]

It was late when Moira finally got to her computer and logged into her email program. She was still feeling rather good over the fact that her article had been picked up and published by a (albeit slightly-unknown) genetics journal. She wondered how long that letter had sat on her desk before she'd opened it; she had to admit she'd been getting very slack with the mail lately, and the emails lately, but she was resolved to solve the latter right away.

With a steaming cup of tea in hand, she took it in stride as she watched the program scroll through the new emails and automatically put her at the most recent. "Welcome Moira, you have 52 unread messages"

"Thanks for the note," she said back to it sarcastically before taking a sip and starting with the newest email. The Worthington Cure was the header, and she wondered if it was someone at Worthington Labs who had already managed to get ahold of her article and wanted to supress it for PR reasons. She bet they'd offer a rather hefty check in exchange for a retraction of the data, and while that offer would be tempting, she'd feel a heel later when the cure really did start wearing off.

As she scanned the email and realized what the man was actually telling her, Moira's eyes widdened and a grin spread across her face. That could cause some problems if there were ever a hemophilic mutant, she remembered thinking just last week. Ooooh, she would give just about anything to get her hands on this man. Maybe she could arrange for him to come to Muir and get some blood tests done. She sighed as she supposed he could get blood drawn closer to home and have it shipped to her. Still, depending on the results of that maybe she could convince him to come for more testing.

Noticing the phone number on the bottom, Moira decided to give him a call, hoping he was still at work at this late hour.

[Admin]

Moira grabbed the phone off the hook, nearly dropping it in her excitement, and dialed quickly. She waited with held breath as it began ringing. Please pick up; please pick up, she thought as she waited.

Lars had stayed behind long after everyone else had headed for home, as was his habit. There was a lot of work that needed doing that only he could do, and besides, the offices were far more pleasant than his crappy little motel room. When the phone rang, he automatically answered it in work mode. "Kennedy Associates, can I help you?"

"Yes," her voice came across with a soft Scottish accent. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Anderssen if I could please. This is Dr. Moira McTaggert from Muir Laboratories."

A soft laugh and the man at the end of the phone chuckled. "You work fast, Doctor, I'm Lars Anderssen."

"Oh! Pleasure to meet ye, sir," she replied cheerily. "I just received your email, and I must say that I am intrigued by your problem. Ye see.... well, do ye have a moment for me to explain it to ye?" She didn't know exactly what time it was in Mississippi, but if he was in the middle of work he may not appreciate a long-winded explanation of the cure.

"Sure I do," he said, swinging round to put his feet up on the desk. "All the time in the world." He had a faint accent, which gave his voice a pleasant tone. It was the sort of voice that should read bedtime stories for women.

"I take it you didn't mind me emailing you," he said, easily. "Only I'm getting a bit...concerned by how quickly my mutation seems to be coming back. It's not exactly the best ability in the world."

"All right," she took a sip of her tea and prepared to tell him what she knew. "Worthington Labs used old, incorrect information to make their cure. They assumed - as has been the assumption for years now - that the mutant gene has been passed down from the father to the children. Which, quite frankly, makes no sense when you look at the ratio of male to female mutants; the instance of mutantcy is quite a bit higher for males than for females. So the gene must come through the mother, much like hemophilia, ye follow?"

"Yes, so far. Not bad for a bridge builder who failed at biology. Color blindness is the same, right?"

"Exactly, I thought ye might understand, given your circumstances." Moira smiled to herself, glad that she had someone on the other end of the line that could at least understand basic sex-linked genetics, even if they failed regular biology. “The gene that the cure was programmed to react to, while playing a small part of the mutant genetic picture, was not the main gene that needs to be suppressed in order to "cure" someone of mutancy as it were. My own lab has been trying it for a number of years, and has failed every time."
"So we've all been mis-sold?" he said, and there was a certain bitterness in his voice.

"Worthington was able to succeed in his endeavor with a cure that would last long enough, because of the mutant, Leech, whose gene's he used to make his cure. Leech will repress the mutant activity of the mutant genes, but only so long as a mutant is near him, do ye understand? So while his gene was used to make the represent, and it does work, it was targeting the wrong gene."

"That is not to say that it won’t find the correct gene and work on it for a time, but it is not nearly as permanent as Worthington made it out to be. As ye know, going through gene-suppression treatment at the moment, it's not a one-shot-and-your-done treatment; it’s an ongoing treatment, because your cells are constantly replacing themselves.”

"So has my Factor IX got something to do with it?"

"Indeed it does," Moira smiled, "your friend was right. The gene for mutancy lays right next to the gene for hemophilia... meaning when ye inject yourself with Factor IX, it attaches to that gene in the new cells present, perhaps before the cure has a chance to do the same. And its not leaving room for the cure to attach."

"So what do I do?" It was almost plaintive.

"What do ye do?" Moira paused for a moment, trying to think of what he could do. "The only thing is constant injections of the cure. But I warn ye, it works the other way as well; if the cure is attached to the gene before the Factor IX can get there, it could keep the Factor IX from working."

She paused a moment, to let that sink in, as she sipped her tea. She hated giving bad news, especially when one's life was at stake.

"Great," he said, a hint of bitterness coming into his voice. "So it's either bleed to death off a paper cut, or suffocate everyone if I get into a bad mood."

Moira smiled knowingly on the other end of the phone. "Not necessarily. If ye can send me a sample of your blood, my labs may be able to find a way to make a gene suppressor that works on them both, at the same time."

"It's not guaranteed, mind, but its a start."

"I can do that," he said. "What do you recommend, just head to the nearest hospital and get a blood sample, or do you have people that you work with who I should see?"

"Well, I could fax ye a sheet for a referral if ye need it; unfortunately the closest lab I work with is in New York. I also know of a place ye can go to while you wait, that may be able to help ye control it. It was run by a friend of mine until his death, and continues on in his protégés."
"A referral would probably be good - I usually work out of Boston, but I'm on site in Mississippi just now. And ... that place? Wouldn't happen to be Xavier's, would it?"

Moira was slightly taken aback at the question, although she should have guessed he'd already heard of it. "Yes it is, actually. Ye already know of it then?"

"I met some people who used to live there," he said. "Maybe I should check it out. I don't know. I'm tired, Doctor, do you know what I mean? I'm a decent guy trying to make a decent living...and it's all falling apart around my ears."

"Aye, I know exactly how ye feel." Moira had never been a mutant, but she'd had her life shatter around her, and had to pick up the pieces and move on.

She could hear him at the other end of the phone, so many miles away, take several gulping breaths as though he was having difficulty breathing, then finally he spoke again and sounded forcibly cheerful. "Sorry about that, let myself get a bit too depressed."

"How quickly is your cure wearing off? I mean, is it gone already, or does your power only work sporadically?"

"It's sporadic," he said, "but...getting more frequent."

"Alright." Moira leaned back in her chair, wondering what could be done about this development. He was in Mississippi... she sat up and dropped the phone as she realized who else was in Mississippi.

"Doctor? Are you still there?”

She picked up the phone and cradled it to her ear in both hands, so she wouldn't drop it again. "You're in Mississippi, ye say? Can ye find Caldecott County by chance? I know someone who may be able to help there."

"How convenient," he said, grinning down the phone at her.

"Oh, ye can find it then? Splendid." Moira started searching her desk, looking for the address Xavier said he was going to. She found it on a blue sticky underneath a pile of unread mail. "Here it is, 416 Turnabout Marsh Lane. It's a dead end from what I know, and a friend of mine, a man named James, should be there. He may be able to help ye. Tell him Moira sent ye."

Lars wrote down the address, wrote the name James and wondered at the world of coincidences that his life seemed to be turning into. "If you can fax across that referral," he said, "I'll get that blood sample sent off to you straight away."

"Will do, what’s the fax number there?" She wrote it down, on the same sticky, and put it on her computer screen so she wouldn't loose it.

"I appreciate any help you can give me," he said, suddenly. "When you have to avoid direct eye contact with people because you might accidentally suffocate them, life isn't worth living any more."

"Don't worry, Mr. Anderssen. We've one of the most advanced labs in the world. If there is a way to suppress both genes at once, we will figure it out for ye."

She had grabbed another piece of paper and was writing down notes to herself. She would liked to have called Xavier and let him know, but he'd never given her a number to reach him at. Hopefully he would understand why she was sending this man to him for help.

"Alright, I'll fax this over right away, and ye get that blood to me as quick as can be. Tell the lab to overnight it and we'll get started on it tomorrow." The excitement in her voice was palpable.

"Thank you, Doctor McTaggert," he said, and it may just have been her imagination, but he sounded terribly tired and weary.

"My pleasure," she replied honestly. She was really very excited to get a hold of his blood and not only make a cure that worked for him, but perhaps one that worked on all mutants. Not to mention the chance to study his blood and genes would be something extraordinary on its own.

"As soon as we know anything at all I will call ye. Should it be this number?"

"Or my mobile." He gave her the number. "Thank you," he said, softly.

"You're very welcome, Mr. Anderssen." She said it with a smile that came through the phone. "Good luck with James, hopefully he can keep ye safe until we can get the revised cure to ye."

"Lars," he said, automatically. "Mr Anderssen is my dad."

She laughed softly, "alright, Lars. I will call ye as soon as I have any news."

"Thank you," he said, gratefully and put the phone down. He spent a long time sitting there, his feet on the desk, his head in his hands, wondering what he'd started.

Moira hung up herself and began immediately to type up a letter to fax over, to get his blood sent directly to her, overnight. She was willing to pay for the extra expense in the way of mailing it, and thought she probably wouldn't be able to sleep that night for excitement. As she typed in the number and hit the send button, she wondered vaguely if they would even be able to make a double-cure for him.