FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

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Hehhey, folks! Here's more of the commission for Aaron Blackpaw , a story of love, desire and fur...and the many forms it can take. Do tell me how you liked it, and I certainly am extremely interested in hearing what you think about it.

Have a fun read!

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Doctor Walter Sullivan's consultation room looked more like the office of a banker than the examination room of a highly valued clinician. The panoramic windows, the photographs of massively enlarged, dyed synapses to create bizarre pieces of modern art, the potted plants, the carpet, the mahogany desk, they all spoke of a kind of high class presence that one either had to be born into, or which had to cultivated through years of cultivated snobbery.

The Doctor Sullivan was possibly of the latter category. He wore a suit and a tie, and a somewhat extravagant golden pin depicting the Staff of Aesculapius on his lapel, which appeared to be the only nod he chose to give towards his true profession. The reflex hammer and the pupil lamp he had used before had been safely tucked into a desk drawer, now that he simply sat behind it on his high-backed chair and looked at the two men sitting in front of him. One of them was dressed in black and held a worrisome countenance over his bearded face. The other wore a cheerfully green shirt, though his face did not have a smile upon it. He sat in a somewhat slumped posture to the left, and his right hand kept tapping an imaginary rhythm against his lowermost ribs. The left foot appeared to be giving a counterbeat to that, with an occasional stomp against the footrest of the wheelchair he occupied.

"Indeed..." Doctor Sullivan said, "perhaps I should start by...showing you the results of the last functional scan you underwent in the lab."

"That's what we are here for," Brandon said.

"Yes..." the Doctor nodded. "Perform lights off."

The windows immediately turned almost completely opaque and plunged them into darkness. The doctor moved his hands from the tabletop onto his lap.

"Perform hologram."

The top of his desk lit up, and a corresponding module illuminated on the ceiling as well, to create a cone of light that extended across the height of the room.

"Perform file, Laurie, seven, four, X-ray, Delta, Yankee, two, three, all layers."

The light pillar undulated and a floating, life-like reproduction of Andy's head suddenly appeared. It looked ghostly, with no hair and with the eyes closed.

Brandon thought it looked like the picture of a death mask he had seen many years ago.

"Perform, central nervous system layers, and rotate five times a minute."

The terrifying apparition vibrated and became a floating, disembodied brain over the doctor's desk, an intricate display of nature with the countless wrinkles of the gyri and the protruding end of the brain stem extending from below. The display was moving very slowly.

"Perform, set cerebral cortex transparency to point five, and highlight basal ganglia."

"Here, Mister Laurie, is your basal ganglia, and I'm afraid the news are not very good," the Doctor said, "we ran the functional scan, the peptide timing and the electric pathway tracking and the hypocellular system cross...and I'm not happy to say that there has been a clear further degeneration in the basal ganglia pathways."

Andy snorted.

"I...could have told you...SO!" he barked out the last word, somewhat unintentionally, since that was the moment when his throat decided to hack up a cough. Brandon gave him a concerned look, and reached out for the blonde man's arm. He allowed him to touch it, while maintaining eye contact with the doctor through the glowing hologram of his brain. Parts of it were highlighted in red, a spiderweb of it inside the depths of his brain. Even they could see that the net had holes in it, as if the spider who had been busy weaving had been drunk and did a shitty job.

"In comparison to your earlier scan, there has been an approximately 7% reduction in total basal ganglia activity," Doctor Sullivan carried on in high speed technobabble, "the degeneration of the axon pathways caused by the BTLS is certainly making it ever more difficult for the different parts of the brain to communicate with one another."

"Could...have...told you...so!" Andy repeated with a grimace over his pursed lips. "Anyway."

"And it's only been six months..." Brandon said.

"Yes," the Doctor nodded heavily, "It might appear that the progression of the disease might indeed be hastening. Have you noticed any further symptoms besides the increased ataxia, bulbar palsy and the memory loss?"

"Bad...temper?" Andy suggested.

"Andy..." Brandon squeezed the blonde man's arm gently.

"Have you had increased disturbance of your mood lately?" the Doctor inquired.

"He - "

"Let me ssssspeak," Andy said. His eyes darted towards the darker male, who fell quiet.

"Yes, Mister Laurie?"

"I'm....34..." Andy said," and...circling...th...th...th...th...the drain...do you think...I am nnooo-no-no-not...disturbed?"

"I saw in your notes that you do see a psychotherapist regularly besides the occupational and physical therapy you are receiving weekly."

"No...p-point," Andy huffed.

"A few months ago he was still doing a lot more stuff," Brandon said, "he was still walking, too."

"It is possible for certain motor functions to deteriorate rapidly once the compensating abilities of the brain simply cannot keep up with the progressive damage. It is also possible for the disease to remain relatively stable for some time, as you have also experienced."

"You...think?"

"So..." Brandon said, "What is the next step? Can you do anything to improve the symptoms with the medication? They have worked well in the past, Andy's been able to function much better with them."

"...until...n-now..." Andy smacked his lips.

"It may be problematic, Mister Laurie...Mister Collier...the toxicity of the medication is a limiting factor, and it is obvious that the extrapyramidical side effects are already quite pronounced with Mister Laurie's current status."

"...too...stiff...and...shaky...even...when...not shaky..." Andy said.

"It is clear that we cannot increase the dosage of the medication if the side effects are becoming almost as problematic as the disease itself," Doctor Sullivan said.

"How about...the...surgery..." Andy huffed.

"I'm afraid deep brain stimulation to control the muscle activity is likely to not be very successful," Doctor Sullivan said. "With the continued degeneration of the pathways, and the resulting inflammation from the operation, the surgical intervention might possibly cause even further harm to your brain."

"So it cannot be done?" Brandon voiced.

"That...train...passed..." Andy breathed.

"It is not possible to expect any reasonably positive outcome from the surgery that could bring an improvement to the quality of life at this point," Doctor Sullivan said. "I am very sorry to say that."

"And there's nothing else we can do?" the bearded man groaned.

"We...knew...where this was...heading..." Andy said.

"No," Brandon said, "there has to be something else. A drug trial or something...whatever...you always keep trying new things, I know that much, I've been to the Internet, I..."

He was becoming more and more flustered. The Doctor frowned.

"Perform, close hologram, and lights on."

The hologram display of Andy's brain disappeared, while at the same time the windows became open again. The Doctor's face appeared even more pale than before. The two men in front of him seemed distraught.

"Mister Collier, the situation is very delicate, you must understand - "

"I don't understand it," Brandon's voice became louder. "When you diagnosed this thing, you said, six to ten years, with continued improvements, and it's only been what, four - "

"Mister Collier - "

"I don't want to hear this," the dark man got up and paced around the expansive office. "I just..."

"Bra...nnn...d..d...dd...d" Andy said.

"I won't have it," Brandon grunted. "I just - "

He shook his head.

"The mitochondrial diseases are often very difficult to predict," the doctor said, "and when you are dealing with the central nervous system, an organ of such complexity, it is even more difficult to give a prognosis on the effects this disease may cause. It is completely individual, based on many, many personal qualities of the patient in question."

"That's not a patient, that's Andy!" the bearded man waved his hand sharply at the seated figure, "that's my boyfriend and you're saying that he's going to get sicker and sicker and then he will die!"

"Bran..."

"Mister Collier - " the doctor appeared flushed.

"I hate it," Brandon growled. "I hate...hate-HATE IT!"

He swung his fist through the air at an imaginary target and pressed it against his chest, then, breathing loudly.

"I'm afraid that conventional therapeutic modalities for the Bychowsky-Laplace-Tanaka Syndrome have been exhausted in your case, Mister Collier, but there is something else that could be offered to you, if you are keen to pursue this option."

Even Andy's somewhat deflated capacity for expression could carry forward the surprise he felt. Brandon looked away from the window he had been staring at to hide his tears, and looked at the doctor instead.

"This better be good," he huffed.

"If you'd take your seat again, Mister Collier."

"T...t...t..t...th...talk,...please."

Brandon stalked angrily onto his chair by Andy.

"I'm listening," he said.

The physician arranged the lapels of his shirt.

"Are you familiar with the case of Lloyd Packard, from the media?" the Doctor said.

Andy remained quiet. Brandon's mouth dropped.

Of course they knew. The NFL quarterback was midway into his 100-million dollar multi-year contract with New England Patriots when he'd taken his shiny new Bugatti on a spin around his neighborhood and managed to get it wrapped around a Wi-Fi hotspot tower. He might have survived, but the extensive burns and three broken vertebrae meant that he was not going to be running after any balls anymore. The press had been full of pictures of his teary picture perfect Miss America lookalike wife, supporting him sternly through skin grafts, through the dissolving of his contract, through his very public, very unhappy retirement, and the painful lack of progress in rehabilitation. The sad figure in the wheelchair, covered in patches of special dressings, had eventually faded out of the press, tired of peeping at misery and finding new targets, until -

"You're not serious," Brandon said.

"A trial in The Netherlands successfully treated four European cases of M-E-L-A-S, a somewhat similar condition to the BTLS, via the so-called transgenemorphic regeneration procedure. The disease was completely cured through the process," Doctor Sullivan said. "Another trial in Switzerland - "

"Are you fucking kidding?" Brandon yelled.

"It's all in the medical journals, and I am also aware that - "

"No," Brandon spat, "are you really seriously saying that the only chance Andy might have of beating this thing is for him to do...do...that?"

"The Mayo Clinic has treated a total of sixty-four different conditions through the use of transgenemorphic regeneration, "the doctor said, "there is clear evidence showing that mitochondrial disease is another field of interest for the ongoing research into the process and its possibilities."

"I...I...I'm not...N..F...L...thoooo...uhhh..." Andy spoke.

"The Krieger-Jensen Clinic in town is looking for candidates for their Phase 3 trial on the transgenemorphic regeneration of mitochondrial illness," Doctor Sullivan said, "I have been authorized by the administration of this hospital to tell you about this possibility, so that you could be considered for taking part in the trials."

"So you want to EXPERIMENT on poor people before RICH FUCKS LIKE LLOYD PACKARD CAN BECOME FANGERS?" Brandon hollered.

The Doctor almost looked like he'd been pushed backwards in his chair by physical force, not just by the man's yelling.

"I have no economical interest in this, Mister Collier," he said, "my only concern is the advancement of the treatment of diseases that we have, until now, been unable to cure. I am well aware that the current interventions are very unsatisfactory stopgap measures that do little to halt the actual progress of the disease. But this...this is something else, it's...it's a whole new...medical landscape!"

"One you know fucking little about," Brandon snarled, "it's been going on only for what, ten years?"

"It is approved by the FDA," the Doctor sounded defensive.

"So was goddamned lobotomy!" Brandon replied.

"Sshhhh....shill...out.." Andy said.

"Andy!" the man grabbed his arm and squeezed. "You can't be listening to this, this - "

"My...ill...nnnnn..." the blonde man spoke up. "My...listening..."

"With your permission, Mister Laurie, the Kriefer-Jensen Clinic could review your case for the possibility of you to take part in the trial," Doctor Sussivan continued, "I must make another point here and very firmly tell you that this is only a possibility, not a certain case by any means, but it is at this moment the only prospect at any definite treatment of this illness."

"But it's...it's..."

"I...stut...terr...enough...for...bothofus," Andy's eyes jerked in the bearded man's direction, "st...st...sthop.."

"It is Mister Laurie's decision," Doctor Sullivan said, "he is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, as judged by our psychologists."

"H...h...how...soon?" Andy voiced.

"If we proceed with the initial review...two to four months."

"That's...that'sss...like...ff...four...yyy.eeearsssh...in...Bee...Theee...El...yeeears..." Andy said.

"Andy - "

"I...I have...nothhhh...to loose..." Andy said. "Put...put...meee....in..."

"We will of course have to sign a consent form for the release of information, but if you are interested, we can proceed," Doctor Sullivan said, "and I do have to voice again my opinion that this procedure may be the only one with any long term benefit for you, Mister Laurie, and I cannot put any more emphasis on that fact."

"We...we'll talk about it," Brandon whispered.

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Thank you for reading! I look forward to your feedback!