#Letting Agent East Sheen

[icewazowski]

Decode [Simon Riley]

Birds chirped from the canopy of trees sat above the squad members, a sombre lullaby to match the dim atmosphere bouncing around the soldiers sat either side of me. The birds had no clue what was about to go down, we only knew how the mission would play out from our side, if everything went to plan. Our target had to be stood in the right spot, at the right time, and we had to work together to take down the guards, the mines and whatever laid waste in this shit-hole of the world we ended up in. Putting it lightly, our odds were against us.

Our squad, known to other soldiers as the 'Suicide Squad' - not to be confused with any literature depiction of the DC anti-heroes - comprised of four other soldiers. Of course we'd known each other for years, but when we were out in the field, our identities didn't matter. Our nicknames were our names.

Milk sat to the left of me, his grey eyes scanning his weapon as little red ants crawled up his arm and onto his rifle whilst he laid in prone position. Below his sandy blonde hair was a light sheen of sweat, one that danced with the facial paint he wore and smeared it across his eyebrow in a weird veiny pattern. From what I knew of Milk, he'd grown up not far from me. Hell, we might have even gone to the same high school, though of course he wouldn't tell anyone that. He tensed his jaw as one of the ants made its way down towards the barrel of the weapon, even if they were insects, Milk wouldn't kill anything that wasn't human.

On the other side of Milk, nestled behind a boulder was Grass, nicknamed for being exactly that. The army had a no-grass policy, so when Grass went to them and informed them of a double agent, they were at a loss for words, he was even on latrine duty for the better half of a year despite doing good. He was young, not much younger than me and Milk, maybe a year younger than us. He didn't look it though, to those that didn't know him, Grass would be easily mistaken for a man in his mid thirties. He was tall, the tallest out of us all, and he had wrinkles married across his forehead. His wife loved him though, and that's all he ever spoke of.

To my right, practically attached to each-other was Dumb and Dumber. They were nicknamed for exactly that. We had been in a briefing room once, sat with our seniority and senators and all the tough shitheads the army wanted to throw at us, getting briefed before a particularly heinous mission. The air was thick with tension until one of those bastards asked the other, 'Why is there something about a cleaning mop on here?' to which the other replied, 'it means Member of Parliament, dumbass.'. For those of you who don't know, it means neither of those, it means Member of the Public.

And then there was me, Spencer 'Fury' Thompson. 25 years of age and the biggest asshole the SAS has ever seen, according to some. But that didn't stop some idiot getting paid the big bucks from promoting me to Sergeant. And I hated every minute of it. The nickname? Well, that came about after one of my first missions, back when everyone called me Spence. It wasn't a big deal, and I hate the nickname, but it works and that's the worst part about it. Back when I was Twenty, when I'd been sent to the Middle East for whatever reason, I'd been with a Gurkha Soldier, and those fuckers are insane. Hell, you wouldn't cross one of those on the street, let alone in combat.

We'd been stuck in a shack for two days, just me and this 40-year-old Gurkha whose name I can't recall, and we'd been stormed by a bunch of Militia type soldiers, none of them were particularly trained to either of our levels, but they out-manned us, and they definitely out-gunned us. That was the day I left the shack as a proper soldier, one of those you see on telly between showings of Coronation Street or Emmerdale, when they try and sell the military to those high-school dropouts. 

We were miles from base camp, considered MIA or KIA, so you can imagine my Lieutenant's surprise when I walked back the forty something miles and collapsed at the gate covered in blood and guts and god knows what else. Gurkha then told one of those campfire stories about me in CQC, practically painting me out to be a God, and thus, Fury was born.

My mother hates that name, but she also doesn't know the true story of how I got it.

Something tickled at my hand, the tiny creature crawled along the valley of my knuckles, and I watched it with distain as its red body moved along my pale skin. I flicked it off and put my gloves back on.

"Alpha Team, this is base speaking," The comms crackled to life in my ear, it surprised me and I felt a gasp of air leave my lungs.

I pressed the comms button on my vest, "This is Fury," I spoke lowly and carried on observing the mansion before us. 

It wasn't anything as fancy as something Pablo Escobar would own, that's a given, but it still qualified for a drug lords mansion, so here we were trying to intercept and end the life of the bastard who was snatching up school kids and forcing them to run drugs and guns and God-knows what else across the border into Russia. I just wanted the bastard leader to show up so we could go back to base. 

Songbird is approaching from your east. The words were gentle in my ear, a blessing as I heard the background noise of people typing and messing around. If I listened closely enough, I could hear the bastard breathing down the microphone. 

"Copy," I responded, and readied my weapon. It didn't matter what type of weapon I had, just that it was fucking reliable, and it did the job I was sent out here to do. The trees parted with a gust of wind, and with the wind came sound - sounds of footsteps approaching our position from behind. The hairs on the back of my neck raised as they watched me. They probably had the entire team in their cross-hairs by now. To do nothing would be to die here, but to do something rash would equal a bullet through my cerebral cortex before I could move.

Discretely, I turned to Milk, "Gas going out," I whispered and tugged the pin from the smoke grenade. I knew it would fucking hurt me, it would burn my lungs and cause my eyes to go blind, but if I didn't do anything, we'd all be going home in coffins. "Brace."

Sticky air coated all around me, the thick fibres of smoke doused my vision and blinded me from what surrounded me and my team. I knew this would be it, move it or lose it. 

Without a single word, I pulled out my blade of choice, the comically named Rambo Knife was heavy in my hand as I relied purely on sound to launch my attack. "We're under attack!" Grass called over comms, alerting Base of our situation in a classing sit-rep style. I lurched forwards and felt something graze past my hand. I felt the heat and the sweat of the bare palm, and it was then that I knew this wasn't one of my soldiers.

I pierced the knife into the body of the assailant, right below where the Kevlar vest sat, and dragged the blade so that it tore through the bladder of the assailant. He open fired, the bullets landing heavy into critical mass of, what I assumed, was one of my soldiers. I knew then that at least one of us wasn't walking onto that C-17 back to the United Kingdom. Another assailant grabbed me, this time the unknown soldier used the butt of his pistol and whacked the crown of my head in a strike. And it hurt like a bitch, and pissed me off, too.

My knife hand was being held by the assailant, and I had no other option than to hope for the best, so I did what I seemed to do best. Improvise. 

A strangled cry yelped out from the vocal chords of the male I just head butted. Some of my vision was returning, albeit my eyes stung with every blink I took, but I saw the sweaty expanse of skin between his jawline and his collar bone. This is really gonna fucking suck, my brain told me. I sunk my teeth into the assailant's jugular and threw my head backwards, the hot crimson blood seeped and sprayed all over me as the man fell limp to live out his last few seconds.

I couldn't tell how many men there were, but it seemed as though it was never ending, especially after the first two kills. I counted nine more until the smoke cleared and I was left to observe the cruel reality I remained in.

"Sarge," One of my men, Dumb, gasped out. His eyes were red and puffy, unfocused on anything before him as he palmed around blindly for his wingman. Dumber was nowhere to be seen, indistinguishable from the mess of bloodied bodies laid on the forrest floor, "Sarge!" Dumb gasped out again, his breath rattled in his rib cage as he cried out for me.

I dropped my blood-slickened knife and ran over to him, "I'm here Thomas, I'm here." I said his name, something we all promised we'd only do if the other was dying. I said his name.

"Tell my mum..." he rattled out, his eyes couldn't focus on me at all, "I love her..." his body was covered in small bullet holes, the lead filling his body with poison as he slowly died out. There was nothing I could do for him. I couldn't save him, and I couldn't even try. I was combat medic trained but for what reason? It was nearly impossible to save the ones you were close to when they were either blown to mush or resembled Swiss cheese.

Milk was already dead by the time I reached him. He was face down in a pool of hot, thick blood that he'd no doubt choked to his own death on. The blade in his chest was angled right to his heart, whoever did this knew exactly what the fuck they were doing. And that worried me.

"Is anyone still alive?" My voice ghosted across the battle field, the sound of it echoed around the woods as a vehicle pulled up outside of the clearing. As if by fucking magic, Kristoph Volkov stood and looked into the ditch where numerous dead bodies laid. He stared down at me from his position, his silver hair reflected the sunlight and his eyes were concealed by those shitty little sunglasses he insisted on wearing. "Well, this is unfortunate." I remarked. My hand was reacquainted with the cool metal handle of my handgun, he knew he had me to myself, and I had him.

Though whether or not he was on his own, I had no idea.

"Poor little lamb," he remarked, and hitched up his trousers before he crouched to look at me eye level, "All of your friends are dead, and you still stand before the lion?" the metal from his handgun reflected the sunlight, I didn't bother looking at it. If he wanted to execute me in this ditch, he would have done it by now.

I scoffed, "What's the worse that could happen? You put me out of my misery?" I asked Volkov mockingly. He smiled, a genuine fucking smile from the man who's just lost a dozen men to the hands of five soldiers.

"I could do that, or I could let you live." He hung the offer over my head and teased me with it. There would be conditions to my survival, that much I knew, and if Volkov knew anything about me, he wouldn't force me to be an agent for him, because he knew I'd never go against my family. "Only if you give a message to your superiors."

The blood on my skin, on my uniform was becoming unbearable. Most of it had congealed, and some of it was becoming dried against my skin, "Make a deal with a terrorist? Yeah fucking right." I spat back. "Just put me out my fucking misery, Volkov."

"I've heard stories about you... it would really be a shame to end the life of someone so magnificent." he crooned. He threw something down into the ditch with me, the package landed heavy at my feet, "It's not a bomb, but it is about to set of a chain of events that your bosses would rather have killed them." Volkov menacingly said, his eyes lit up with mischief. "Go, now, little lamb."

I inspected the object at my feet, it wasn't a bomb, that much I was certain, but it certainly looked like a bomb. There were wires and various pieces sticking out of the cylindrical object that managed to arouse my suspicions. But it wasn't a bomb. I picked it up, and tucked it down the front of my vest. "Oh, before I go and play delivery man,"

Volkov peered down at me with such interest, almost like I was a dying animal in his front yard, "Go ahead,"

"If you call me a lamb one more time, it'll be your throat I tear out with my teeth." I smiled at him. Was it that I was going insane? or was it simply psychopathic tendencies that had devoured my brain now that I had a taste of blood in my mouth, "Watch your six." I warned, a final goodbye as I backed off from the pit, and made my way back to base camp with the object and the lives of my comrades on my conscience. 

"Sergeant, where the hell are the others?" General Shepherd yelled, the American officer's forehead was covered in sweat as he bounded over towards me. I knew he was a prick, most British officers gossiped about it, even his own soldiers bitched about the type of prick he could be. I pushed him away from me, wanting only to get to my senior officers,

He put his hand on my back, "Sergeant, answer me when I talk to you!" He yelled, causing a few of the British Soldiers to look my way as I stormed towards the command centre. "I am your superior officer!" his American accent was rough as he spoke, jarring even.

"Like fuck you are, you are my senior officer, but there is no way on God's Green Earth are you superior to me or any other Soldier in this compound," I yelled back and tore the balaclava from my face. I muttered "Fucking Yank." under my breath.

My shaky hands tore at the tarpaulin covering the entrance to the command centre. The device tucked in my vest scared me, the feel of it caused my stomach to drop as I thought of every possible way that this could totally be a bomb. Hell, it's a great idea too. The little lamb dies due to an incendiary device the Lion planted. That would be a good newspaper. I wonder if I'd actually turn into pink mist too, or if that's just a saying.

I stood to attention and saluted the commissioned officers, the General storming into the centre after me, "No, you wait here," my supervisor informed him, before he pulled me to the side, "Sergeant, what happened?" he asked and shut the door behind us.

It was as though I'd been faced with reality for the first time since the ambush. Sure, it weighed heavy on my heart as I made my way back here, but it was something I wanted to push down. Not even waterboarding would get how I truly feel out of me. He gestured at me to sit down, so I did. The weight off my feet was pleasurable to say the least. It was as though everything had finally come to a halt, I just wanted to recline out and sleep for the rest of my life.

"We were ambushed, I should've prepared better, Sir." I spoke the words in an uneven voice. I knew I'd fall apart if he asked me how I felt, I just knew it. "Volkov was there afterwards, he should've fucking killed me." My hands ran across the pants of my Army issued combat boots. I was in pain, I'd need therapy for all of this at some point, that much I knew.

My supervisor sat next to me, his hand offered out with a cup of coffee in it, "I put a bit of bourbon in there, figured you'd need it." he remarked before he stood up and perched on the end of his desk.

Under different context, I could consider him to be gorgeous. He had thick blonde hair that curled in the warmth of the summer air, his brown eyes made him look like a golden retriever as he stared at me with sorrow on his face. He pitied me. 

"Sir, Volkov gave me something to give to you," I began to pull the device from my vest, "I know I'll be gone soon, the army won't have me after that shit-show, but at least let me see the end of Volkov." my voice wavered as I spoke, the reality of my situation had begun to dawn on me.

The officer before me took the box from my hands and opened the lid on it, "Well he's gone to a lot of trouble to make this look like a bomb to say it's a message in a bottle," he chuckled softly, "Look, Spencer, I know you want to see the end of him, but your skillset is destined for something better, the higher power knows of it too." 

To some of you, 'The higher power' will mean God, whichever God or Gods you believe in, this isn't the same for us Soldiers. Our Gods are the SAS, an elite operational team comprised of only the best officers the British Military has to offer. Sure you might have heard rumours, but they were far more menacing than those fairy-tales made them out to be. The SAS were nameless, faceless and lawless. They took life and liberty into their own hands, and they made damn sure to clean up any mess or loose ends they left behind.

They moved silently, coveted by darkness and doused in high-tech equipment. The SAS were Legends.

"What have they said? I'm destined for a Gulag?" I replied to my boss, and crossed my arms defensively.

He looked across at me, "Sergeant, I suggest you clean up, the SAS want to have a word with you later," he offered me a half smile. A half smile was a bad thing, it was resentful and full of regret whenever this man half smiled. He did it to offer pity or even offer an animal one last friendly face before he killed it, "But first, you're going to have to explain why we're repatriating four of our best soldiers."

By the time I had finished explaining to an entire board of senior officers, and the bastard that was General Shepherd, why I was the sole survivor, I was exhausted. I didn't even have time to shower off before I was being put on a plane with the coffins and sent first class back to the UK. There was, however, a shower on board, which I had been permitted to use.

The water pressure was shit, to say the least, but my body needed whatever water it could get in order to clean myself from the blood and mud and shit that coated my skin and darkened my complexion beyond what was tolerable. Water spread across my aching shoulders and dripped down the valley of my breasts, I could hear the other Soldiers outside, the ones that had time to dress into their smartest uniform and groom themselves to an acceptable standard before the procedure had begun. 

I allowed myself to wash my hair, I scrubbed my scalp raw, my fingers coming away with heaps of hair in it, probably due to the stress I felt whilst out here in the Middle East. I shampooed the best I could, and that's when I dropped the bottle. My heart rate flooded my ears with a cacophony of rushing blood, my hands balled into fists and started to shake violently whilst I fought to regain control. It was just shampoo, just a stupid bottle that had caused me to overreact. I could feel everything I was touching, the roughness of the anti-slip mat under the balls of my feet, the water clinging to every part of my skin, the damp hair suffocating my neck.

I picked the bottle up and threw it, the small travel sized item rattled into its death in the sink, and I was still shaking.

It's fine. It's fine, you're okay. The words I repeated in my head managed to ground me to the present moment, and the feelings subsided. It was normal, I was okay. I was fucking fine.

Without another incident, I finished up my shower and dressed into my smartest uniform, the Army green jacket itching my neck as I straightened my posture. I cemented my hair to my scalp with hair gel and forced a smile in the mirror. I looked fine. It's fine. It's fine, you're okay. I repeated.

If only then, I knew how this would fuck my life up.

[project1939]

1952 -> 2023: Adjusting to the Leap Forward 

What was it like transitioning back to 2023? I have a terrific memory of the first time I watched any visual media from 2023. I put on a video by one of my favorite Youtubers, and at first I legitimately thought something was wrong with my screen. It seemed waaay too bright. The colors were so blinding, I thought something was wrong. Then I realized this is what 4K looks like compared to kinescopes and prints of old films! The lines were so crisp and sharp, and everything looked so insanely vivid and detailed. I literally felt like I was fucked up on a hallucinogen- I couldn’t stop giggling for about an hour, it was so trippy!

Adjusting to a different schedule was also a process. I kept stopping things I watched when an interesting quote occurred so I could write it down- doing that for the daily blogs had been a habit for 91 days. There were also times where I felt tired in the late afternoon and panicked, thinking, “You’ve got to stay awake to watch a movie and get some writing done tonight!” It was nice to just let myself be tired and go to bed early if I needed to. 

Best thing about being back in 2023: I have free time again! 

Worst thing about being back in 2023: I quickly noticed the cynical negativity of much of our media today. Even after only one day of it, I felt drained and depressed and angry in a way I generally didn’t while watching 1952 things. Yes, many times the sexism and racism in 1952 made me angry, and, yes, the news in 1952 was pretty depressing, but overall, the media had much more positive vibes. 

I also miss having clear daily goals that I achieved each day. It felt good to accomplish difficult things every single day. It also felt fantastic to be writing much more than I normally do. 

Do I feel any affection or nostalgia for the 1950s now? I’ve been asked this a few times. The answer is a resounding “no!” I feel some affection and nostalgia for the project and the process, but I do not view the 1950s in any kind of rose-colored way. Just reading or watching the news media of the time takes the sheen off the idealized version of the 1950s many Americans now have.  

-There were hysterical fears of communism, witch hunts in Hollywood, and the government perpetuated the idea that communist agents were everywhere.  

-The H-bomb was first successfully tested in 1952, ramping up fears of total world annihilation.  

-America was fighting a losing war in Korea, while boys were being drafted and forced to fight.  

-A highly contentious presidential election was held, and in both the Republican and Democratic conventions there were intense inter-party hostilities. A physical fight broke out on the floor of the Republican convention.  

-Civil rights issues were really flaring up in the South as everyone awaited the ruling on Brown v. the Board of Education. Black people were being lynched. Most couldn’t vote.  

-Gay people were being arrested and then having their names printed in the paper. Those suspected of being gay in the government were hunted down and fired. Families disowned them, and the medical community treated them as sick, often performing torturous “treatments” to “cure” them.  

-Booksellers were fined and put in jail for selling or mailing paperbacks deemed “indecent.” (that today would be PG-13) 

-East Asian people were routinely mocked in movies and television. Anyone not white was invisible in TV and film.  

-Parents and elders were constantly warned of “juvenile delinquency,” something even the FBI called the greatest threat to America. Young people were supposedly all disrespecting authority, using drugs, having sex everywhere, committing crimes, and fighting in gangs. They were seen as spoiled and lazy. (Sound familiar?!) 

-If you were a woman it was assumed men could whistle at you, make inappropriate comments under any circumstances, and grope and touch you without your consent. If a husband raped his wife, it wasn’t considered rape. Women had no access to credit without a man signing off on it. 

-People with disabilities were thrown into deplorable institutions or hidden away.  

So, no, I don’t think these were The Good Old Days!  

It's also interesting to remember that in the 1950s people were looking back on the 1920s as The Good Old Days when everything was better and more innocent! 

[cowandco]

East Sheen, also known as Sheen, is a suburb in south-west London, in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames. The main high street is the Upper Richmond Road, which offers many small boutique clothing shops and delicatessens. Our letting agents love East Sheen for its parks and open spaces.

[kyouryokusenshi]

Hotel California

My MUCH MUCH belated 50 states fic has arrived.

Summary: Mulder and Scully stay in a swanky California hotel in the Bay Area. Set sometime after Plus One, but before Rm9. “A Map of Us: 50 States of Sex” challenge by @viceversawrites and @softnow

Tagging some other folks: @baronessblixen @danceswithcybermen @kikocrystalball @cultureisdarkbeer @fragilevixenfic @suitablyaggrieved @today-in-fic

A/N: I am soooo sorry it took this long for me to get this out. I’ve been in a major writing rut and life has just been crazy. As you may have guessed, the title was inspired by the song Hotel California. I also don’t own any rights to it, of course. :) 

Shedding her coat was one of the first things Scully had done upon exiting the plane at SFO. The tight proximity of the plane cabin on the six-hour non-stop flight had her feeling nauseous and claustrophobic in addition to her usual airborne anxiety.

“You alright, Scully?” Mulder asked as he gently palmed her shoulder.  

She could feel his gaze soaking up the entirety of her, carefully analyzing in case he found her answer less than satisfactory.

Scully regarded him carefully as he smoothed a lock of stray hair behind her shoulder while they waited for their luggage. She opened her mouth as she considered her words.

“I, uh...hot flashes,” she let out a chuckle. “I guess I should give up and join the AARP club.”

Mulder shook his head as he placed his hand on the small of her back. “Well, at least, I’ll no longer be flying solo in that club.”

Scully looked at him in shock. “Wow, you never fail to surprise me, Mulder.”

“Hey,” he rebuked. “Sooner or later, we’re gonna retire, remember? Those discounts will come in handy. May as well start saving now. I’ve been out of work for over a decade, remember?”

Scully smiled. “You have a valid point.” She couldn’t help but admit that this new frugal Mulder was turning her on.

“Well, what can I say, those online couponing groups are also pretty useful.”

“I must admit,” Scully started as they reached for their luggage as it came along on the conveyor belt, “I’m excited to see this swanky hotel you put us up in and how on Earth you managed to get it by Skinner.”

Mulder smiled. “I was taking more of an ‘act now and ask questions later’ approach.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully sighed, resigned. “I guess some things never change- which is oddly comforting.”

“Just think of it as a belated birthday gift, courtesy of yours truly, the Hoover Building, and Big Orange.”

-----

Once they retrieved their things and walked out to the pickup area, Mulder pulled up the Uber app and requested a ride. Sure enough, a friendly driver by the name of Jose pulled up to the curb in a red Nissan Versa.

The gentleman who appeared in his mid- to late- thirties rolled down the window. “Bob?” 

“Yes,” Mulder remarked quickly before the younger man hopped out of the car to assist them with their luggage. 

Mulder exchanged a quick glance over at Scully, who was, indeed, raising her eyebrow in amusement. “Are you having an identity crisis, Mulder?”

Jose reached for their suitcases-- to which Mulder happily obliged as the driver placed them into the trunk of his car.

“You try explaining Fox for the millionth time,” he quipped, palming her shoulder as she reached for the door to the front passenger seat. “It does make for some interesting conversation.”

With Mulder in the back seat and Scully in front, they admired their coastal surroundings and bustling of the city. Several electric Bird scooters lay tossed haphazardly upon the sidewalk as they passed through some great and not so great parts of the city.

“So you’re from D.C., huh?” the driver mused from behind his shades. “What brings you out here?”

“We’re FBI Agents,” Mulder provided as the driver’s eyes went wide. 

“No shit?”

“We’re not really here on business, though-- at least, not exactly. My partner here just had a birthday last week.”

“Oooh, well happy belated birthday. I must say, though, the hotel I’m taking you to is pretty swanky. You won’t be disappointed,” he said, glancing back at Scully.

“Is that so?” Scully said, catching Mulder’s gaze in the mirror.

-----

Minutes later, after some sightseeing suggestions, they pulled up in front of a highrise building that was smaller than many of the others that surrounded it. Once the driver retrieved their luggage and bid them farewell, Mulder opened the Uber app and left the guy five stars with a generous tip.

Scully happened to catch a glance at the screen. “Is Skinner paying for that, too?”

Mulder smirked as he pocketed his phone. “Go big or go home, Scully.”

She sighed as they entered the building. “Well, we’ve already come this far.”

As they entered the lobby, they were greeted with an abundance of boutique decorations that were modernized mid-century style. Scully turned to look over her shoulder at Mulder and nodded in amusement. 

“Wow, Mulder, you really outdid yourself.”

“I try,” he purred, slipping his arm around her shoulders, steering them towards check-in. “I try.”

If the lobby decor was anything to go by, Scully should have been prepared for the boutique designs that had awaited them in the room. The room itself wasn’t huge, but it was clearly a recent design with a mid-century modern flair. The walls were an orange-ish red to contrast the wooden flooring. A king-sized bed lay in the middle as a large heart-shaped jacuzzi tub was just opposite of the room.

The urge to rid Mulder of his clothing right then and there was extremely tempting. 

Mulder turned back towards her, clearly reading her thoughts as he closed the space between them. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, Scully; I’m thinking the same thing, but I made a dinner reservation that’s a half-hour from now. Let the anticipation build some, hmm?”

Scully startled as Mulder placed one arm around her and the other at her thigh, and in one swooping motion, she was dipped backward as his lips fell onto hers. “Oh!” She closed her eyes as she allowed him to support her weight, returning the kiss with fervor.

“Mmm,” Mulder moaned as he felt her tongue slipped between his lips. He hardened involuntarily against his slacks, brushing against her thigh in the process. 

Scully moved into the kiss further, tasting him as she placed an arm around his shoulders. 

Mulder reveled in the taste of her before breaking the contact. “Jesus, what you do to me, woman,” he breathed heavily. 

“Who needs seafood for dinner when I can have you?” Scully rasped, a teasing glint in her eye.

“Mmm… as amazing as that sounds, Scully, the kid-sized peanuts and pretzels for the past seven hours—courtesy of the airline staff-- doesn’t quite do it for me.

“It had better not disappoint, Mulder.”

----

They somehow managed to collect themselves over the next several minutes before Mulder had called for an Uber on his phone. They were nearly running down the hall to the elevator once they realized the driver was less than a minute away already.

“Chasing Ubers can be like chasing monsters, I guess,” Mulder remarked on the elevator ride down. 

Scully rolled her eyes as the door opened before rushing out into the corridor. 

The trip itself wasn’t long, but a good portion of it involved them sitting in traffic as per usual in the East Bay Area according to the driver. Mulder looked over and smiled at Scully. She met his gaze and returned his smile at the driver’s choice of music and lyrics from Hotel California began to play.

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim

I had to stop for the night.

There she stood in the doorway;

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

'This could be heaven or this could be Hell'

Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor,

I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)”

Scully turned to look at Mulder, it finally having dawned on her the significance of this song. In her tone-deaf voice, Scully sang, softly.

“Such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel California. Any time of year, any time of year, you can find it here.”

Mulder chuckled. “I thought you couldn’t sing.”

“I can’t,” she scoffed, gazing out the window at the immaculate view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the tranquil blue waters in the distance. Her lips curved upwards, “But, it’s the Eagles, how can you not?”

Mulder looked over at her, struck suddenly by those blue depths as he often was. He leaned forward and Scully met him halfway, her lips connecting instantly with his. God, he couldn’t get enough of her. 

Until recently, he didn’t want to get his hopes up that she’d want to rekindle what they’d had together for so many years. He was uncertain if the night at the St. Rachel motel was more than a desire to combat the loneliness he that plagued them both.

“Hey, don’t take it any further back there, alright?” the Uber driver warned.

A few minutes and several discarded Lime scooters along the street later, they arrived at their destination for the night; a restaurant along the Pacific Ocean's cliff. The sun had just started to set, crimson melting into the sky as the sun cast its final sheen onto the water’s surface. 

Once they were inside, a busboy asked if they had a reservation, to which Mulder provided the name Bob once again.

He smirked knowingly as Scully cast him another look.

The interior of the restaurant was as fancy as the hotel Mulder had reserved; although, they were surrounded by double-paned windows instead of walls that provided a breath-catching view of the ocean outside.

“Oh, Mulder, you shouldn’t have,” she teased as they sat down. 

They were just short of beating the evening rush as several people began to pour in shortly after. A server stopped by to offer a selection of wine and Scully eagerly claimed a bottle of red that the younger gentleman had boasted was local to Napa.

Mulder raised a toast to Scully before watching the way the red liquid touched her lips and the way her tongue claimed the excess as she set the glass down.

“Scully, did you know over ninety percent of the wine in the United States is produced in California?”

“Considering I spent some time in this state, I could have easily guessed,” she remarked as she took another swig of wine.

“Hey, I gotta keep you on your toes,” he retorted as he playfully lifted his eyebrows.

Scully opted for a plate of seafood pasta, with the seafood being locally sourced, as Mulder opted for prime rib.

Scully cast a glance around the spacious interior of the restaurant, looking at tables filled with people and chatter as the sky darkened outside. Mulder had rid himself of his coat and she couldn’t help but notice the scent of his cologne permeating through the air between them. He must have put it on in their mad dash to ready themselves for dinner. She wished she'd have thought to pack a small vial of perfume for this trip.

Their dinner arrived within twenty minutes, most of which was spent in silence as they admired the sunset and colorful hues of the sky outside the vast windows. Once Scully finished her food, she hoped she wouldn't have any issues keeping it down.

After they managed to finish off a bottle of wine, Mulder paid the bill, much to Scully's chagrined reluctance and they meandered their way outside to the patio, which was surprisingly empty. As the brisk air passed over them, they could see why.

Scully shivered as they gazed out at the now darkened sky, rubbing warmth into her arms. Mulder seemed to take note of this an instantly shed his coat and draped it around her before she could offer a rebuttal.

"Remember how I told you about the stars, how they're billions of years old?" Mulder mused.

Scully couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "How could I forget? At one point, I thought you were among them," she explained.

Mulder turned towards her as a moment of melancholy settled between them.

"I spent thirty minutes talking to Skinner about souls and starlight."

To her surprise, they both let out a chuckle. 

"Good. Now, he can pay it forward," Mulder chuckled.

Scully didn't seem to catch on to this last statement as her gaze traveled up and down Mulder's well-tailored suit, which was snug in all the right places.

While a ways from being drunk, she was feeling euphoric effects of the buzz she had going. 

"Scully?" Mulder promoted, making her realize she had been quietly staring at him for a good few minutes.

"Huh?"

"Did you want to take a little walk?"

"No, I actually think I want to go back to the hotel and, erm, make use of the facilities you paid so much for."

Mulder eyed her for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

Twenty minutes later, they were back at the hotel and Scully opened the drapes to reveal the iridescent lights of the city before them. It was a breathtaking view.

"So, I was thinking we could walk around the city tomorrow; check out Pier 39, walk around the Golden Gate Bridge or heck, take a boat ride to Alcatraz… "

"You know, Mulder," Scully interjected from the bathroom, "I just realized there's only one bed."

Mulder felt like a deer in headlights. He still wasn't quite sure where they stood, but after that case with the twins and the fact that Scully was at the house regularly, he figured it odd to be sleeping in separate rooms at this point.

He scratched his head nervously. "I, erm, well, I can… take the couch."

Mulder was wholly unprepared for what came next. Scully exited the restroom, having shed her blouse down to reveal a lacy black bra.

A shiver of anticipation passed through him at the sight. If it was cold before, the room suddenly felt extremely hot.

"I'm kidding, Mulder."

"Oh, I uh...um…"

He turned away, not wanting to make any further assumptions. They both had had plenty to drink, though most of his buzz had tapered off already.

"So...any of those sound good to you?" He asked nervously.

"Think," she mused playfully, "we can figure out something.” Her sultry tone was not lost on him.

As she moved closer, he turned toward her, feeling himself harden in response and unable to look away as his gaze traveled up and down her body. 

Mulder seemed to be asking a silent question with his gaze, to which Scully responded by reaching to unbutton her skirt and allowing it to all but drop to the floor in a haphazard heap. 

Mulder could feel his heartbeat quicken and thump against his chest at the sight. The next thing he knew, his hands were moving on their own accord to free himself from the confines of his pants.

As he did so, Scully crossed in front of him and playfully pushed him back onto the bed before assisting him with stripping his pants the rest of the way down.

Mulder let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he stared up at the intricate contemporary artwork on the ceiling. He allowed himself to be at Scully's mercy, letting her have full control over how far she wanted this to go. The next thing he knew, the warmth of her mouth enveloped his length, moving up and down, sucking him into the back of her throat with a hum. 

She took her time in pleasuring him, savoring the taste of him like a popsicle.

"Oooh, I'm not going to last long at this rate, Scully," he moaned, feeling himself throb inside the sheath of her mouth.

Scully pulled back then, licking her lips and savoring the taste of him before crawling onto the bed on her hands and knees and straddling him between her legs.

As she neared, Mulder was entranced by the sight of her voluptuous breasts as if he was privileged to see them for the first time. Other than their recent encounters a few weeks back while investigating the doppelganger case, they hadn't been intimate for a few years, and it seemed like an eternity.

As Mulder reached for them, Scully's hand found his, guiding it to her chest. As she moved to unclasp her bra, Mulder’s hands were covering hers as they both worked to free her from the contraption.  He could swear they seemed slightly fuller than before, but maybe it was his imagination.

Scully let out a small gasp at his touch as his fingers explored her breasts as she moved on top of him. "Oh, God," she moaned.

Mulder gently nibbled on the small bud, the sensitivity shocking Scully to her core. Gently, he released her nipple as he allowed his tongue to slowly draw circles around her areola before trailing upward to her neck and jawline.

Scully leaned forward, pressing her lips against his ear and biting down slowly, gently nibbling on his upper ear before moving downward.

Mulder slipped his free arm underneath Scully in the process and the moment his fingers touched her folds, he could immediately feel the wetness seeping between them. He pushed inside, making a come hither motion with his index finger, causing her to yelp.

"Fuck me!"

Scully bucked against him involuntarily as he moved to tease her clit.

"Happy to oblige," he moaned.

Their mouths found their way back to one another and Scully felt her walls spasming against his touch.

He removed his finger and slipped it into his mouth, savoring the sweet tang of her before offering it to her. Realizing he couldn't wait much longer, he surprised her by shifting slightly as she parted her legs and slipped inside.

"Oh, Scully," he moaned.

The feeling of him inside her was welcoming as they began to work in tandem with each thrust. Mulder's hands supported her hips as she reached out to grasp the headboard. 

"Oooohh fuuuck!" she nearly screamed. In that moment, she couldn't have given a fuck less if anyone overheard them.

Mulder threw his head back as he picked up the pace. He could tell she was close as he was. 

"Yes, MULDER. YES!"

As he felt himself spill inside of her, he felt her walls ripple against him before feeling her release. With a heavy sigh, Scully relaxed against him. The moment was euphoric even though everything went so fast.

Mulder moaned as Scully shifted to move beside him, her hands finding their way down his chest, her fingers taking delicate care along the way. Neither wished for the moment to end. Scully felt Mulder’s hand find its place on her lower back as she moved closer to his face, teasing him with her bottom lip until their mouths connected.

Closing his eyes, Mulder moaned into the contact, his tongue moving in sync with hers, relishing the taste of her mouth and the softness of her breasts pressing against him. Scully finally pulled back with a gasp, allowing the air to seep through her lungs as she lay on her back. It was as if she had forgotten to breathe.

Mulder smiled in spite of himself, allowing a moment to pass before he moved to sit beside Scully as they faced the opened window that overlooked the city lights.

“Talk about an afterglow,” Scully said as she rolled over onto her stomach. “Were the curtains open this whole time?”

“Yeah,” Mulder chuckled. “Good thing we’re on the top floor, huh?” he said with a chuckle.

Scully hummed as she moved to wrap herself inside the warmth of the top comforter. 

“You planned all this didn’t you?”

A smile pulled at Mulder’s lips as he leaned over, brushing her hair aside as he nuzzled her neck with his nose. “Well, I am a dark wizard, Scully.”

“Mmm, is that so?” she moaned, lifting her brows suggestively as he pulled away. Their lips found one another again and they closed their eyes, savoring the moment.

Opening her eyes, Scully looked at Mulder and a sly smile tugged at her lips. “Well then, I can think of a few more things that could use some...magic,” she whispered as she lifted the comforter.

“Oh, now you’re talking,” he said suggestively as he dove under the covers with Scully squealing in delight, enjoying the contact. She could feel the heat of his mouth as it neared her center, sending a gentle shiver up her spine. Mulder’s tongue slowly began to tease her clit and she writhed underneath him as she yelped out in excitement.

“Ohhh God!”

Mulder stopped only momentarily, grinning to himself. He knew exactly what he was doing to her and how she was instantly putty in his hands. He continued diving into her warm core, savoring the taste of her.

Slowly but surely, they would make their way back to one another. It had been set into motion since they first went back to the FBI together. The stars seemed to align more perfectly than ever before as they got back to their bread and butter.

END

[crescentmoon223]

Two Worlds Collide Chapter 13

Read it on AO3 | Rated: NC-17 | Stella x Scully

Chapter 13

Scully stared at Stella without really seeing her. She gasped for breath, tears blurring her vision, emotion pouring out of her in an uncontrollable wave so intense she couldn’t speak.

“Dana, what’s happened?” Stella asked quietly.

Scully lifted a hand, gesturing for Stella to come and sit beside her at the kitchen table. Stella sat, so close her shoulder bumped Scully’s as she looked at the letter spread out in front of them. Scully smoothed her hands over it, noticing a dark circle in the middle of the paper, a teardrop threatening to smudge the impossible, improbable words written there.

Stella clasped her fingers around Scully’s as she began to read. Scully released a shaky, shuddering breath, her eyes tracking to the words on the paper, words she’d already read a dozen times. Somehow, the letter felt more real now that she had someone to share it with, to confirm this was really happening.

Fox and Dana,

We’ve debated many times whether to send this letter, whether it’s in Will’s best interest, in ours, or in yours, but he’s a strong-willed boy, and he’s been very insistent. We’ve heard about your circumstances from Agent Doggett, the reasons you had to give him up for adoption, and that the danger to Will and to yourselves is now past.

So, we’d like to honor our son’s wishes and invite you to his eleventh birthday party. He knows who you are, knows an age appropriate amount of information about your situation, and he would very much like to meet you both.

We hope that, for his sake, we can all come together to honor his wish, and that, if it goes well, and if it’s what he wants, you might be able to keep in touch with him in some small way. The last thing we want to do is disrupt his life in any way, but we also don’t feel like it can be a bad thing for him to have more people in his life who love him.

You’ll find a copy of the invitation enclosed. Please send your response as quickly as possible. We haven’t told Will that we agreed to his request, so if your answer is no, we’ll simply tell him we decided it was best to wait until he was older to try to get in touch. We don’t want him to be hurt by any of this, so please, if you decide to come, make sure that you’re doing so for Will’s sake, and with his best interests at heart.

Best,

Tom and Marsha Van De Kamp

 Stella looked up, her own eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Dana…”

“I know,” she gasped, fingers clenching around Stella’s. She sucked in a breath and held it, trying to get control of herself. Her heart raced, and her lungs spasmed from the intensity of her tears. She exhaled slowly.

“This is a big development,” Stella said quietly. “Did you have any idea it was coming?”

“No,” she whispered. Her head swam. Her pulse was rapid, and a sheen of cold sweat coated her skin. She was hyperventilating. She might even be suffering the mild effects of shock. She tried to take another slow breath, pressing a hand against her diaphragm.

“I’m very happy for you.” Stella’s thumb traced back and forth over the palm of her hand, so soothing.

Scully concentrated on her touch, swallowing thickly. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep the room from spinning. “I need…a drink of water.”

“I’ll get it.” There was a scrape of wood against linoleum as Stella stood, and a minute later, Scully heard the clunk of a glass against the table. “Here you are.”

She wiped the tears from her face, meeting Stella’s concerned gaze and offering her a shaky smile. Then she gulped the glass of water Stella had placed in front of her. “Thank you.”

“Are you all right?” Stella pressed a hand over hers, warm and soft against Scully’s cold, clammy skin.

She nodded, causing fresh tears to spill over her cheeks. “I’m going to see him, Stella.”

She smiled. “Yes, you are.”

“I have to call Mulder,” she whispered.

Stella pushed back from the table. “I should go.”

“No.” She gripped Stella’s hand. “Please stay.” I need you…

Stella nodded. She stood and walked into the living room to give Scully some privacy for the call. And so, for the first time since arriving in London almost a month ago, she dialed Mulder’s number. It was mid-afternoon on the East Coast. He’d be sitting in his office chasing conspiracy theories, maybe looking at a letter like the one she held and feeling like the earth had just shifted beneath his feet.

A chance to see their son…

Will. The Van De Kamps called him Will. He was turning eleven. Fresh tears spilled over her eyelids as the phone rang in her ear.

“Hello,” he answered, his voice so clear, he might have been sitting at the table across from her.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

“Hey, Scully.” He sounded tired. “How’s London?”

London? He wanted to talk about London? “Mulder…did you get the letter? The one Doggett sent us?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

She sucked in a breath, fingers tightening around the phone. “I can’t believe it. After all this time, we’re going to see him again. I don’t even know what to think. I’m just…in shock.”

“You’re going, then?” he asked.

“Of course, I’m going. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, Scully. I feel like I’ve had to put William behind me to move on with my life. Maybe it’s best to leave him there.”

“What?” She pressed a hand against her chest as more tears rolled over her cheeks. “But…he wants to see you. He wants to see us. We’ve been given a chance that might never come again.” A chance to make things right…

“You should go,” Mulder said. “I know how much he means to you. You should definitely go.”

“Mulder, he’s our son. Our son. How could you even think about not going?” Her eyes swept the kitchen, seeking and finding the baby photo of William tacked to the fridge. She remembered the way he felt in her arms, so soft and warm, the solid weight of him against her chest. She could still hear his delighted giggle as he yanked her hair and see the little star-printed hat with ears he’d been wearing the day she gave him away…

“I just don’t think it would be a good idea for me right now,” Mulder said, suddenly sounding hollow and tinny, as though an ocean separated them after all.

“You’re making a mistake,” she whispered.

“Yeah, well, it’s my mistake to make. I have to go.”

The line clicked, and she sat there for a long moment, staring at her phone. Then Stella was there, looking at Scully with sympathetic eyes. She lurched out of her chair, wood screeching against linoleum as she pressed herself into Stella’s embrace.

“He’s not going,” she whispered, hands fisting in Stella’s blouse as her tears left dark spots on the gray silk. “How could he not go?”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Stella said as she rubbed her back. “And they don’t have to be your reasons.”

“I’m going to see him,” she sobbed, clinging to Stella. “After all these years, I’m going to see William. I never thought…”

“Shh.” Stella guided her toward the couch, pushing her down to sit. “You deserve this,” she murmured, still rubbing Scully’s back. “You deserve this.”

“He goes by Will now.” She hiccupped, her face still buried against Stella’s blouse.

“It’s a good name.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “Did you see the invitation? It’s a Harry Potter themed party. I’ve never read Harry Potter…”

Stella held her, one hand stroking her hair as Scully cried on her shoulder.

“After I gave him up, I couldn’t bring myself to read any of the books we might have enjoyed together. It didn’t feel right.”

“Well, I’m sure you could read it before next weekend,” Stella said calmly. “Or even on the flight to Wyoming. It will be a long flight.”

“Have you read it?” she whispered, turning her face so that her cheek pressed against the cool silk of Stella’s blouse as her tears finally slowed.

“No.”

“Will you come with me?” she blurted, fingers still clutching Stella’s shirt.

“Dana, I don’t think that would be appropriate, and it’s certainly not a good idea.”

“Not to the party,” she clarified. “I’ll do that on my own. But will you come to Wyoming with me? We could make it a long weekend together, see what there is to see out there. Grand Teton. Old Faithful.”

Stella was quiet for a long minute, still stroking Scully’s hair. She closed her eyes, focusing on that soothing gesture, the comfort of Stella’s fingers grounding her when everything else inside her still felt like it was spinning, like the poles had been reversed and she was dangling upside down, trying to find her way back up.

“Of course, I’ll come,” Stella said finally. “If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

“It is.” Fresh tears soaked Stella’s blouse. “Thank you.”

“Dana…”

Scully lifted her head, meeting Stella’s eyes, overcome by a rush of emotion so powerful she almost started crying again. I love you.

The words came to her without thought, and she knew them immediately to be true. She loved Stella, loved the fierce way Stella cared about the people in her life, including the victims she fought so hard for. She loved the seemingly limitless passion between them, the way Stella could shatter her into a million blissful pieces and put her back together with a single smile. She loved that Stella would drop anything for her if she asked.

Somehow, over the past few weeks when she was supposed to have been throwing her heart and soul into her new fellowship, she’d fallen head over heels in love with the woman sitting next to her, the woman currently staring at her with unabashed affection in her eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Scully whispered.

“I’m glad I am too.” Stella’s arms tightened around her.

And she didn’t let go, not when Scully woke in the middle of the night, sobbing, and not when she screamed obscenities at Mulder sometime before daybreak. Neither of them got much sleep that night, and Scully was so tired the next morning, she felt like crying all over again at the thought of the twelve-hour shift ahead of her.

“I’m too old for this,” she mumbled into her coffee.

“No, you’re not,” Stella told her as she set a plate of toast on the table between them. “You’re just emotionally wrung-out, and that’s more exhausting than the most grueling workday.”

“That’s true.” She picked up a piece of toast gratefully.

“So, chin up,” Stella told her, sliding a finger beneath Scully’s chin for effect. “Today will be long, but I’ll be here for you at the end of it.”

“Thank you.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she leaned in to kiss Stella. “I mean it.”

Stella dropped her gaze to the table. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. And I don’t want it to end when my fellowship is over.” She exhaled, watching as Stella stiffened, knowing immediately she’d said too much.

“Dana…let’s not do this right now, not this morning of all mornings.”

“I could stay in London. I could get a job here.” It wasn’t even that outrageous. She loved it here, and she was about to start her career over from scratch no matter where she lived.

“When you finally have a chance to get to know your son in the states?” Stella finally met her eyes, her expression sharp.

“Do you have any idea how far Wyoming is from Maryland? If I get the chance to see him again, and that’s a big ‘if,’ but if I do, what difference does it make which airport I fly out of to get there?”

Stella stared broodily into her coffee, feathers clearly ruffled by the topic at hand. If Scully had taken the time to think before she spoke, she would have foreseen this reaction. It was perfectly predictable, and yet, it still hurt…a lot if she was being honest with herself. She’d spent so many years loving a man who had always loved his work more than he’d loved her, and now she’d fallen for a woman who was the same way, a woman who would give every ounce of her soul if it would save even one of the victims she sought to protect on the job, but couldn’t give Scully the simple satisfaction of agreeing to live in the same city with her.

And right now, on this particular morning, it was more than she could bear.

“You know what, forget I said anything.” She stood from the table, tossing her uneaten toast in the trash. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Dana…” Stella trailed behind her as she grabbed her bag, heading for the door.

“Don’t say anything,” Scully told her, seizing hold of her anger and using it to banish the tears that had threatened moments before. “You’ve already made yourself perfectly clear.”

Stella ran her tongue over her teeth, chin jutting in defiance, but she said nothing, following Scully quietly out the door. The air between them prickled with unspoken words and hurt feelings as they made their way down the stairs to the street.

They stared at each other for a long moment before Scully turned away, walking as fast as she could in the direction of the tube station, walking off her anger. By the time she’d arrived at the hospital, she was just plain tired. And now that she’d cooled off, she was a little bit ashamed of the way she’d treated Stella that morning.

Stella had held her all night, had promised to fly all the way to Wyoming with her to hold her together after she went to William’s birthday party, and how did Scully repay her? By biting her head off when Stella balked at the idea of Scully moving to London, which she’d dropped on her completely out of the blue after a sleepless night.

But still…

Even though she knew it was irrational, she was hurt that Stella hadn’t at least been willing to consider something more. Which meant, she was really only mad at herself for wanting more from Stella than she was able to give. Deep down, people couldn’t change the way they were. Mulder and Stella were both loners, and Scully was the unlucky, ignorant fool who’d fallen in love with both of them.

Well, it ended here. She could go to Wyoming alone. She’d been alone—emotionally, at least—when she gave birth to William and when she’d given him up for adoption. It was only fitting that she would take this next step in their journey on her own too.

She buried herself in work to keep her emotions at bay, completing a total of three autopsies, the third of which came after she’d driven with Dr. Linenburger to a crime scene on the outskirts of London to examine the body first on site. As she donned the white protective suit that law enforcement wore here in the UK, adrenaline burned away her fatigue. This was the first time she’d stood at an active crime scene in ten years.

“It’s good to be back,” she whispered to herself.

No matter where she ended up when all was said and done, it was good to be back.

It was past nine when she finally left the hospital that night. She was exhausted, famished, and emotionally brittle. She hadn’t heard from Stella all day. Neither of them had sent their usual text to coordinate whose flat they’d stay at tonight or what they should do for dinner.

Scully wanted to cry as she walked up the street toward home. Her cupboards were bare, but she was too tired—physically and emotionally—to stop somewhere for food on her way. Was this it, then? Had she and Stella broken up? Were they finished?

No. Scully would go to her tomorrow and apologize—after she’d had some sleep—but she might suggest that they add some space back into their lives if it was all going to end in a few short weeks when Scully’s fellowship was over.

As she walked, it started to rain, ice cold drops splashing over her head and shoulders. A slow drizzle soon turned into a deluge, and Scully was caught in her scrubs, no umbrella, soaked to the skin within minutes. She cast her eyes upward, cursing against this sad, soggy end to her already shitty day.

She sloshed her way up the street, sneakers squishing with each step. A peanut butter sandwich would have to suffice for dinner. And maybe a glass of wine, although she wasn’t even sure she had any. She and Stella had polished off a bottle together a few nights ago, and it might have been Scully’s last. As she turned onto her street, she blinked back tears.

Fuck this day right to hell and back.

That’s when she saw someone standing on the front step of her building. A woman. Her head was obscured by a black hood, but Scully would know that petite frame anywhere. She stopped in the middle of the street, shivering as rainwater trickled down her spine, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. Stella came toward her, stopping a few feet away, expression guarded, arms clasped around herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Scully’s shoulders slumped as all the fight went out of her. “Me too.”

“I just don’t want you to make a mistake, especially not because of me.” Stella’s gaze dropped to the pavement, water flowing around the toes of her shoes.

“Being with you doesn’t feel like a mistake.” Scully took a step closer. This was a stupid conversation to have in the rain, even stupider than it had been this morning over a plate of uneaten toast after a sleepless night.

“Moving here for me would be,” Stella said.

“Why?” Raindrops rolled over her cheeks. They felt like tears. Maybe they were. Maybe she was so wet and so emotionally overwrought she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“Because you have a life and a family in America, a mother who loves you, a son you’re just about to reunite with. Those are permanent, important things, and I’m—”

“Also important.” She closed the remaining distance between them, wrapping her arms around Stella. “Surely you realize that.”

“I’m not permanent.” Something cracked in Stella’s voice on that last word, and Scully felt like the earth had split open beneath their feet, a gulf yawning between them.

“You could be,” she whispered, throat aching with tears.

Stella swallowed hard, looking up into the rain-soaked sky. Raindrops slicked her cheeks, or maybe they were tears. Maybe they were both crying, or maybe neither of them was. “I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

“Stella…”

“I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

“I know.” She gulped. Her nose was running, and she had the totally irrational urge to laugh, to just double over and laugh until something in her life made sense, because right now nothing did. “I know. Thank you.”

Stella’s arms came around her, the plasticky surface of her jacket sleeves sending a shudder through Scully’s body as they slid over her bare skin. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “I really am.”

“Please keep trying,” Scully whispered back.

Stella kissed her in response, an answer of another kind, a language Stella was more comfortable with when it came to expressing emotion. Scully met her kiss, cold wet lips pressed against cold wet lips, and since it really wasn’t fair that Stella was still relatively dry inside her jacket while Scully felt like she’d just come out of a dunking tank, she pushed her fingers through Stella’s hair so that her hood fell back. They pressed together, water dripping everywhere, fabric scraping and skin slipping. Stella’s teeth skimmed Scully’s bottom lip, tongue teasing, as hot as the rest of her was cold, and then they were kissing for real.

Scully shut her eyes against the rain still splattering relentlessly over her head, absorbing the feel of Stella’s mouth on hers and the firm grip of her hands on Scully’s ass. Rainwater ran between their lips, cold mixing with hot, and how was she ever supposed to let go of any of this? This moment, this woman, this life here in London. She wanted it all, and she wanted it to last forever.

“Come on,” Stella murmured against her lips. “Let’s go inside.”

She nodded in agreement, remembering her bare cupboards as her stomach reminded her of its presence with a loud rumble. But she was so glad to have Stella back she didn’t even care if she had to feed them both peanut butter sandwiches tonight.

“I brought food,” Stella said, guiding Scully toward her front door and the plastic bag sitting on the top step. Her beautiful blonde curls were plastered to her face now, and Scully felt guilty for pushing off her hood.

I love you, she thought desperately. I love you so much.

And despite what Stella said, she was permanent, because she would be in Scully’s heart forever, no matter how many miles ended up between them.

[cntcrtainmcnt-blog]

lmao never trust my words when i say no more muses. so anyway, under the cut are brief intros.

ABIGAIL MACQUEEN looks an awful lot like VICTORIA JUSTICE. SHE is TWENTY-THREE and while they’re DETERMINED, they have a tendency to get pretty PASSIVE. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to SOLITAIRE by MARINA&THE DIAMONDS.

so i can definitely see how she resembles victoria’s character on eye candy. i actually created that muse before and then when the show came out, i modified it to look similar.

Older of two, she’s always been very energetic and outgoing. And very very damn good with computers.

When she was 16, her younger sibling went missing, and she started developing her hacking skills to try and track her online activity to find her.

But she never did, at least no in time, since they found the body of her younger sister washed up on some shore on the East Coast two months later. 

She decided to not let it stop her, and decided to use her skills to actually help others who might need it. So she opened some sort of underground business, and gets paid to hack for people(as long as it’s not like... government, or the person isn’t meaning any harm by it).

Buuuuuut she got caught, although they gave her some kind of second chance. She’d be free, as long as she decided to use her hacking skills to help cyber crimes rather than doing illegal jobs. So now she’s a hacker for cyber crimes in Kola(which is where she grew up btw).

ARINA KOLOSOVA looks an awful lot like NATALIE DORMER. SHE is THIRTY-TWO and while they’re SUAVE, they have a tendency to get pretty VINDICTIVE. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to YOU DON’T OWN ME by DUSTY SPRINGFIELD. 

Born and raised in Moscow, both her parents worked for an underground agency, think something similar to Kingsman, but with a Black Widow twist.

While her childhood was fine, when she became older, her parents started training her to become the perfect agent.

They became harsher on her, often depriving her of a real meal or even bed sheets at night when she wasn’t doing good in her training.

It was becoming a lot to deal with, but she knew better than to go against her parents. So she just tried harder and harder in trainings until they judged she was old and skilled enough to pass the entrance test for the agency.

Which she did, she aced it. While Arina never really thought about doing the same job her parents did, she did have a job now, at 21, so why give it up?

But it was underground, not very legal, and so they got busted when she was 24. She wasn’t there when they showed at the HQ, but her mother was, and she destroyed all files linking to Arina before the authorities saw them.

Due to her parents being arrested and her job not existing anymore, she managed to get a visa to move to the states for political protection.

She landed in Kola, and joined a biker’s gang, which is the best thing she did in her life.

Due to being deprived of meals often when she was younger, she now has a very large appetite, although she does burn off all excess by training.

Probably gets paid to help people get revenge on whoever did them wrong.

ARWEN DAE SHEEN looks an awful lot like ARDEN CHO. SHE is TWENTY-NINE and while they’re FUN-LOVING, they have a tendency to get pretty CLUMSY. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to WEIRD PEOPLE by LITTLE MIX. 

Dae was born in Korea, but before she was even 5, her parents were targetted for a crime they did not comit, but the culprit created false proofs, so they had to flee the country.

They landed in England for a few years, building a new life. And by doing so, they all changed their names. They didn’t want to be traced back, although they did keep their last names. She was only 5 though and would only come up with random names, so her parents named her after a character from their favorite book series.

Her father later on got a job offer in Kola, California, so the family moved there. Arwen was probably about 8-9.

And she’s been in Kola since, and doesn’t plan on moving out, since she fell in love with the town.

She currently works as an elementary school teacher, as well as a fencing instructor by night.

CARSON MCALLISTER looks an awful lot like ALEXANDER KOCH. HE is TWENTY-SEVEN and while they’re IDEALISTIC, they have a tendency to get pretty DERANGED. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to WICKED by BOY EPIC. 

My fucked up son I haven’t played in ages.

Son of the police chief in Kola, and a high school teacher, who sadly passed away giving birth to him.

His father was not a good man. Carson grew up seeing him bring in women, at first acting like a true gentleman, until he became abusive with them and they left. And that did rub on him with time.

During high school, he fell in love with this girl, she was the light of his life. They were together for nearly 5 years, before they broke up. He was training to become a police officer like his dad, and she felt their paths were diverging.

He... did not take it, and locked her up in one of the rooms of his very large house. His father working crazy hours and that room being empty, never realized it until a few weeks later. A missing notice person was filled, and his father suspected him. The house was searched, they found the girl, and Carson was arrested.

He did time, and is only coming out of jail now, has no job, probably couch surfing since his father won’t talk to him.

Still wants his ex back tbfh.

GENESIS FERRER looks an awful lot like ZOE SALDANA. SHE is THIRTY-SEVEN and while they’re LOYAL, they have a tendency to get pretty OPINIONATED. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to SORRY NOT SORRY by DEMI LOVATO.

Her parents moved to the states before she was born. But they later on got deported, although since she was born there, she was placed in foster care. (would’ve much rather prefered to be taken with her parents)

Was intentionally bad with all foster families because she was salty. She’s always been kind of a brat.

After graduating, she started studying management, while also working as a part time security guard at the mall. 

One thing lead to another, and when she graduated, Genesis decided to start her own security company. So now she owns a company, who people basically employ to guard their buildings, malls, shops, zoo, whatever.

Was never able to get a serious relationship because she’s very distant with people. BUT I SWEAR SHE HAS LOVE TO GIVE.

Also I’m making her a green alien in the future verse because I CAN.

MADELEINE STOKES looks an awful lot like KYLIE BUNBURY. SHE is TWENTY-SEVEN and while they’re CHARISMATIC, they have a tendency to get pretty JUDGEMENTAL. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to BO$$ by FIFTH HARMONY.

This character was originally an April Pearson fc? But she has like no good resources? So here we have the lovely Kylie instead.

Filthy rich family, she was spoiled to death. And it got to her head. But her parents also thought her that she’ll have to work for her own money when she’s older.

Queen Bee all through her school career. People looked up to her, but also feared what she could do.

Currently works as weather girl for the local channel.

That character was also originally inspired by Regina George, so she does keep a Burn Book, which she’s had since high school, and still adds stuff to it.

MARGARET BALDWIN looks an awful lot like DAISY RIDLEY. SHE is TWENTY-FIVE and while they’re METICULOUS, they have a tendency to get pretty INDIVIDUALISTIC. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to CAN’T BE TAMED by MILEY CYRUS.

Daughter of Gustav, he used her as one of his test subjects.

When it got debunked, her mother and her changed identities, and while it did mess with her head, it was nothing compared to her mom.

It wasn’t much later that her mom had to be sent to a psychiatric rehab center, and is still there. As for Nicoline Margaret, her neighbour was kind enough to take her in for as long as it might take.

They already had two kids, so she grew up with two people she now considers her siblings.

She always did good in school, but was horrible at following simple rules and orders. So after graduating, she went into journalism and is now an investigative journalist.

She hates her dad, and wished he would still be in jail. Actually erased him from her life and didn’t even know he was out until she went to see her mom and she mentioned he visited her.

She’s very bad at relationships but I swear if you bring me John Boyega, Adam Driver and/or Oscar Isaac, as exes, current crushes, FWB, or whatever you can think of, I will forever love you.

[mrcoreymonroe]

Examining Another Bermuda Triangle Crash

When you say an airplane has disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle, people sit up and take notice. And if that airplane has recognizable names on board, they sit up even taller.

An accident occurred in the Bermuda Triangle on May 15, 2017, and the NTSB released its report on October 1 of this year. It involved a Mitsubishi MU-2B that had been flying at FL240 over the Atlantic Ocean en route from Puerto Rico to Titusville, Florida. There were four people on board, and all were presumed lost. Only a few pieces of wreckage were recovered by the U.S. Coast Guard. As of the time the NTSB's report was released, there were no signs of the main wreckage, nor had any bodies been recovered.

Many in the business, entertainment and fashion worlds recognized the names of the two adults on board. Jennifer Blumin, age 40, was the CEO of the Skylight Group, specializing in transforming unusual places into space for fashion shows, product introductions, photo shoots and fancy parties. Her 3-year-old and 4-year-old sons were on board. The pilot was Nathan Ulrich, age 52, a businessman and ex-husband of the Canadian film and TV actress Rae Dawn Chong, who is the daughter of comedian and actor Tommy Chong of Cheech & Chong fame. Blumin and Ulrich had been in a steady relationship.

As if to dispel any notion of this being another Bermuda Triangle mystery without even mentioning that infamous territory, the NTSB stated a probable cause without equivocation. The probable cause of the accident, it said, was the pilot's intentional flight into an area of known icing and convective thunderstorm activity, which resulted in loss of control of the airplane. Pretty conclusive, yet a conclusion reached without having examined the airplane wreckage, without having the benefit of listening to a cockpit voice recorder, without having the benefit of a flight data recorder to read out, and without having the benefit of examining any bodies to look for signs of unusual trauma or asphyxiation. Yet the Safety Board investigators gathered what information they could, and the investigation proceeded to its conclusion. After all, the NTSB collectively has a wealth of experience, including with MU-2B accidents.

In looking at the Safety Board's database, I counted 170 MU-2B accidents, foreign and domestic. Of those, 76 involved fatalities, with 220 people killed. That’s a lot when you take into account that during the manufacturing years of 1963 through 1986, from 700 to 800 of the aircraft were built, with different sources showing different numbers.

The accident airplane was an MU-2B-40 with 10 seats that had been manufactured in 1981. The twin-engine turboprop was powered by AiResearch TPE331 series engines, each producing 904 shaft horsepower, according to FAA registration data. The airplane had undergone an annual inspection and was signed off on December 3, 2016, with a total time of 4,634.2 hours.

The airplane was equipped with modern avionics, including dual ADS-B transponders, a satellite transceiver and the capability to receive and display NEXRAD weather images.

In 2005, the FAA conducted a special safety study relating to MU-2B airplanes after a number of accidents. It issued a Special Federal Aviation Regulation (SFAR), which required special training for pilots. Initial training was to include at least 20 hours of ground instruction and a minimum of six hours in the airplane or a qualified simulator. In addition to requiring the pilot to complete a training course final phase check, the FAA decided an MU-2B pilot-in-command must have logged a minimum of 100 hours in multiengine airplanes before being allowed to be PIC of an MU-2B.

The accident pilot had logged 1,483 total hours with 100 in MU-2B aircraft. He held a commercial certificate for single-engine and multiengine land airplanes and was instrument rated. An FAA investigator who examined the pilot's logbook reported that it appeared as if the flight time entries for two flights in a PA-34-300 aircraft used to build multiengine experience prior to his multiengine flight test had been altered to add 10 hours to the flight time.

The pilot's girlfriend, Blumin, was listed as the agent for a consulting company, which was the registered owner of the aircraft. The pilot began his training in the MU-2B on January 5, 2017, at a flight training company in Tennessee. Investigators learned that Blumin rode along on many of the flights. His logbook showed 74.5 hours of training in the aircraft, which included 3.2 hours on instruments. Part of the instruction dealt with handling the airplane in icing conditions. In 2003, the FAA had issued an Airworthiness Directive requiring that all MU-2B pilots watch a video on handing the airplane in icing conditions that had been produced by Mitsubishi. The pilot viewed the video and, according to an instructor, it was stressed that the purpose of the airplane's anti-icing and deicing equipment was to protect the airplane while getting out of the icing as quickly as possible.

The airplane departed the Rafael Hernández Airport at Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, at about 11 a.m. The destination was the Space Coast Regional Airport at Titusville. The takeoff was routine, and the airplane was soon at its cruise altitude of FL240. It flew essentially straight and level and at a steady airspeed on its IFR flight plan. At about 11:41, the pilot checked in with a Miami Center controller and reported level at FL240. The controller replied, “...roger, cleared direct, Piper papa india papa echo romeo, direct Titusville.” The pilot acknowledged.

At 11:47:53, the controller radioed the pilot, “...just to be advised your, uh, transponder just went off. I think it switched back on again.” The pilot responded, “Okay, let me know if it happens again, and I can try the, uh, second one.” The controller told the pilot, “roger that. If there's...weird how this works, if there's a cruise ship that, uh, at Grand Turk, which there could be just because you're at low altitude, it does interfere with it sometimes, but I got you again, radar contact, a hundred twenty-two miles southeast.” At 11:48:14, the pilot replied, “Position checks. Thanks.”

At 12:15:40 p.m., the controller tried to hand off the pilot to another controller. “November two two zero november, contact Miami Center one two five point one.” There was no response. Ten seconds later, the controller repeated the message and the pilot promptly replied, “Twenty five one, two zero november, good day.”

At 12:16:15, the pilot radioed the next controller, who failed to respond immediately. At 12:16:50, the controller radioed, “Last aircraft calling center, say again, I was off line.” The pilot checked in with his tail number, and the controller acknowledged.

At 12:35:43, the controller asked the pilot to switch frequencies: “November two two zero november, change to my frequency one two six point two seven.” There was no response. The controller tried again about 20 seconds later, but there still was no response. The controller tried again on the emergency frequency. There still was no response, but the controller kept trying until, at 12:40:32, a Southwest Airlines flight radioed, “Miami, Southwest fifteen fifty two, two zero november's trying to get hold of you.”

The controller asked the Southwest crew to relay a message to the MU-2B pilot to monitor the Miami Center frequency and try to check in again in about five minutes. Apparently, the MU-2B was in an area where two-way radio communications can be spotty. Finally, at about 12:44:42, Miami Center and the MU-2B resumed two-way radio contact.

At 1:14:16, Miami Center issued a thunderstorm alert to all aircraft, advising that details about the hazardous weather information were available on Flight Service frequencies. The thunderstorms were moving from the northwest at about 10 knots and had tops to FL390.

At 1:28:16, the controller told the pilot to change to “...Miami Center on one three four point eight.” The pilot acknowledged, telling the controller “...good day.” When the pilot contacted the next controller, the transmission dropped out and the controller asked the pilot to try again. There was no reply. The airplane's active target was lost from radar, but controllers weren't initially alarmed because in the area the MU-2B was going through, targets sometimes are temporarily lost. When that happens, the system generates a symbol in what's called “coast.” In this case, the target remained in coast for about 3 minutes, a sign that something was wrong. Numerous attempts by various controllers and flight crews of other aircraft to raise the MU-2B pilot were unsuccessful. The airplane had been traveling at about 300 knots and was lost from radar when it was about 37 miles east of the island of Eleuthera.

At about 2:10 p.m., Miami Center notified the U.S. Coast Guard Seventh District Command Center of the missing airplane. The Coast Guard dispatched three airplanes, a helicopter and the cutter Bernard C. Webber. The Air Force sent a C-130 and a Jayhawk helicopter. Customs and Border Patrol and the Royal Bahamas Defence Force sent ships. At approximately 3:30 p.m. the following day, May 16, 2017, the crew of a Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter located a debris field about 15 miles east of Eleuthera. A swimmer was lowered into the water to recover some of the debris. There was a fuel sheen on the water. The search continued for three days, but there was no sign of the airplane's occupants.

According to the pilot's flight history, he had flown along the accident route several times during the approximately four months he had been flying the MU-2B. He received text messages with weather briefing information from a commercial service at 3:210 a.m.and 3:17 a.m. on the morning of the accident. The information provided to the pilot covered the route from Puerto Rico to Titusville and then a route from Titusville to Islip, New York. Investigators could not determine whether the pilot had received any weather updates before taking off. The NTSB did not do an extensive study of the pilot's activities in the days before the accident, especially the night before. While doing a weather briefing at 3 o'clock in the morning may lead many people to conclude that the pilot must have not had as much solid sleep as might be desirable, the Safety Board said there was insufficient evidence to determine the extent to which fatigue may have affected his ability to fly or analyze the weather conditions that likely were enveloping the aircraft.

An NTSB meteorologist prepared a weather study for the flight and accident area. The study found that while the flight was in progress, a SIGMET was issued warning of frequent thunderstorms with tops to FL440 in the area where the airplane went down. Satellite images showed that the cloud tops actually did reach FL400. Reports created by the National Weather Service's Aviation Weather Center (AWC) designed to predict icing conditions showed that moderate to heavy icing was expected in the accident area and at the altitude at which the airplane was flying. Further, it indicated up to a 90 percent potential for Supercooled Large Droplets (SLD) to be present in the clouds close to where the airplane was lost from radar. The SLDs, according to upper air soundings, would likely have been present in clouds in the vicinity of the accident site between 15,000 feet and FL260.

SLDs can create an extremely hazardous condition for an airplane because they can be 100 times larger than the droplets that usually make up ice. In training material, the FAA explains, “...their mass is so great that they can strike well behind the protected areas of an aircraft. Despite icing certification limitations, accidents and incidents in SLD conditions have been documented, especially following sustained flight in freezing drizzle or freezing rain. Larger droplets have greater inertia and are less influenced by the airflow around the aircraft. As a result, larger droplets adhere to more of the aircraft surface and are more likely to move behind ice-protected surfaces ('flowback').”

The NTSB noted that at about 2:40 p.m., a pilot report of light to moderate rime icing in the area near the accident site was received from a Boeing 737 at FL250.

The Safety Board said the icing forecasts, including the SLD predictions, would have been available to the pilot via the AWC website before he took off.

While the Safety Board emphasizes that the pilot's only known weather briefing was about 8 hours before takeoff, it does not speculate about whether he used the airplane's avionics or an electronic flight bag to obtain updated weather information. It does, however, focus on there being no evidence from the radar returns or communications with ATC or other pilots that he recognized there were thunderstorms and icing conditions and attempted to avoid them.

Some may suggest that the NTSB should have left open a probable cause for this accident, given the paucity of physical evidence. Although icing and convective activity have, indeed, been at the core of numerous aircraft accidents, could there have been a catastrophic medical event? Or a sudden depressurization? Or a structural failure? Or a dual engine failure? Or a failed control system? Or something in combination with the weather? Or the Bermuda Triangle being its mysterious self? It's possible that, in the future, more than just the few pieces of debris that were recovered will be found and this accident will get a second look. That might serve to confirm what the NTSB concluded or take us in a very different direction.

Peter Katz is editor and publisher of NTSB Reporter, an independent monthly update on aircraft accident investigations and other news concerning the National Transportation Safety Board. To subscribe, visit www.ntsbreporter.us or write to: NTSB Reporter, Subscription Dept., P.O. Box 831, White Plains, NY 10602-0831.

The post Examining Another Bermuda Triangle Crash appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

from Plane & Pilot Magazine http://bit.ly/2S9gQj0

[fashiontrendin-blog]

The Ultimate Guide To The Tudor Pelagos

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-ultimate-guide-to-the-tudor-pelagos/

The Ultimate Guide To The Tudor Pelagos

It’s the diving watch that nobody can get enough of. No, not the Tudor Pelagos, which is the watch we’re actually here to talk about – rather, the Heritage Black Bay. Whether in bronze or steel, framed by a burgundy or navy aluminium bezel, it is the blue-eyed posterboy for Tudor’s recent renaissance, and a modern classic in every sense.

Yet, amazingly, this handsome waterbaby was only reissued a few years back, drawing its retro design cues from an old Tudor diving watch that went by the name, ‘Submariner’.

Sound familiar? Of course it does. Switzerland’s modern-era genius Hans Wilsdorf founded his Tudor label in 1946, forty years after launching a little brand you might know called Rolex. Named after the colourful English historical period (Wilsdorf was a self-confessed Anglophile), Tudor was built on the promise of, “a watch that our agents could sell at a more modest price, that would attain the standards of dependability for which Rolex is famous”, as Wilsdorf put it.

The Tudor Pelagos Backstory

By the mid-fifties, he had launched in parallel to Rolex’s immortal, James Bond-endorsed Submariner the Tudor equivalent, which was immediately snapped up by the era’s pioneering SCUBA hobbyists and elite naval frogmen. Cased-up in Rolex’s signature watertight ‘Oyster’ case with screwed-down crown, yet fitted with cheaper, outsourced mechanics, the Tudor Sub’ was realistically affordable kit for French Navy divers until 1981.

Despite its successes, Tudor, like so many others, was damaged by the ‘quartz crisis’ of the 1970s, when cheap Far Eastern imports hammered the traditional craft in Europe. Rolex tried its best to bail out its sibling, but Tudor eventually disappeared from the limelight, pottering along (ironically enough) in the Far East.

That is until 2010, when the ‘Heritage Chrono’ revived one of Tudor’s groovy ’70s waterbabies with a kaleidoscopic ‘Monte Carlo’ dial. Two years later and Tudor was hands-down back in the game, thanks to the launch of the Heritage Black Bay – the watch that has consolidated Tudor’s newfound identity as a colourful, nostalgic, and extraordinarily affordable brand.

Which brings us – finally! – to the Tudor Pelagos. Because, as lovely as the Black Bay is, in all its iterations, it is ultimately a tribute act. A Now That’s What I Call A Tudor Submariner greatest-hits mix of retro details, such as the famous ‘snowflake’ hours hand of 1969, the oversize crown, and the ‘Pepsi’ bezel of the GMT (aka The Watch That Won Baselworld 2018).

A Modern Day Diving Watch

The Pelagos launched quietly in the same year as the first Black Bay reboot, and was designed on a blank sheet of paper with a simple brief: make the perfect modern diving watch. Much like the Submariner back in 1953, in fact.

Nothing was overlooked and everything is just-so. It is almost impossible to see where Tudor could improve on things and sure enough, apart from 2016’s left-hand-crown version and the switch from an ETA movement to Tudor’s own top-flight MT5612 calibre a year before that, nothing else has been tweaked since 2012.

The Build Quality

Its potent cocktail of saltwater qualifications starts with the titanium case – a super-tough metal that’s incredibly tricky to engineer to diving-watch tolerances, yet lightweight, with a grey sheen that complements a two-piece suit as well as a wet one. Not only that, but Tudor’s casemaking facility has managed to machine and seal up all those titanium components to a water resistance rating of 500 metres. Far beyond the reach of the finest SCUBA divers, but ‘good to know’ and hugely reassuring at that.

Then there’s the use of scratch-proof ceramic for the most prominent surface of the watch, the rotating timing bezel, meaning glances against coral (or brick walls inside trendy pubs) won’t scuff things up. The aforementioned mechanics stay self-wound thanks to an internal rotor that swings with your arm movements, but if you leave your Pelagos motionless on the dresser top on Friday night, it’ll still be ticking come Monday morning thanks to a power reserve of 70 hours (the previous ETA calibre manages a mere 42). It will have lost or gained just a few seconds, thanks to above-and-beyond levels of fine-tuning at Tudor’s watchmaking ateliers, surpassing even the strict requirements of Switzerland’s ‘COSC’ chronometer rating (the official system used to certify the precision of Swiss watches).

The Design

It’s as if Tudor has been building up to the Pelagos ever since 1954’s Submariner – and as future-forward as its physical make-up may be, what’s particularly charming is the one concession to its genetic makeup: that snowflake hours hand from 1969. Meaning it sits alongside the Black Bay collection not as the all-mod-cons show-off, but rather a more utilitarian and professionally minded offshoot.

“Though Tudor has a long history of building eminently capable dive watches,” says mad-keen SCUBA diver, free diver and diving watch authority, Jason Heaton, “perhaps its best one is its most recent.

“The Pelagos has been called by many the best modern dive watch, full stop, and I’m not inclined to disagree. The minimalism is born out of pure, stripped-down utility, saved from brutal sterility by the mesmerising cerulean dial and ceramic of the Blue version.

“And then there is the clasp,” Heaton continues, “which is perhaps the Pelagos’s pièce de résistance: micro-adjustment notches allow for fine-tuning while the floating section expands to accommodate a thick wetsuit and contracts to take up slack as the suit compresses under water pressure.”

The most impressive feature, however? The pricetag. All of the above – Rolex pedigree, military heritage, future-proof engineering, in-house precision mechanics and super-smooth styling – is yours for £3,160.

The Helium Escape Valve

As if the Pelagos’s rigorously complete package of sub-aqua features wasn’t enough, there’s a helium escape valve thrown into the bargain too. In total contrast to the primary purpose of diving watches, however, this actually has nothing to do with the pursuit of SCUBA, snorkeling or indeed doing the washing up. Instead, it is a simple device located on the caseband, invented by Rolex over 50 years ago for industrial divers working on the submerged steelwork of oil rigs for days at a time – deep ‘saturation’ dives in bathyscaphe diving bells.

The divers’ pressurised atmospheric air was saturated with helium, which, being the smallest atom, passes through the microscopic gaps of even the most rugged diving watch. Once their ‘tour of duty’ was over and they returned to ambient pressure conditions, the dial crystals of their Rolex Submariners were popping off, as the helium gas inside couldn’t escape quickly enough. Rolex’s response was a remarkably simple, patented valve, located on the side of 1967’s Sea-Dweller Submariner model – also upped to 610m water resistance for good measure.

There are far too many me-too diving watches out there, unnecessarily fitted with helium escape valves – after all, the chances of deep-SCUBA-diving while wearing a watch worth thousands of pounds is slim enough; the chances of making it into an industrial bathyscaphe at the bottom of the ocean practically negligible. But as the direct descendant of Rolex’s professionally endorsed divers, the Pelagos is a rare example of a diving watch whose helium escape valve you can forgive. Expect, even.

Owning A Tudor Pelagos

How To Wear It

The great thing about a diving watch? Even if you don’t dive at all, you can realistically justify wearing one from a luxury watch brand – unlike anyone with a Porsche 911 GT3 RS who doesn’t make track days a regular fixture. You can put it on and forget about it, safe in the knowledge that a spontaneous dip in the pool or unexpected cloudburst may mess up your hair, but certainly not the delicate Swiss mechanics ticking on your wrist.

The luminous dial markings are handy for checking the time en route to your 4am bathroom visit, and you know its chunky case will survive a knock or two, whether your clambering back aboard a RIB or assembling an IKEA flatpack. For all its specialist purpose, it doesn’t even command much of a premium (unlike that race-worthy Porker) plus its voluptuous proportions and purity of design make for a discerning statement accessory. Bottom line? A Tudor Pelagos is fish, fowl, or whatever else you want it to be.

Tudor Pelagos Iterations

Black Ref. M25600TN-0001

As pure a diving watch as can be, its monochrome aesthetic working across the board, from flippers to wing-tips. Assuming your natural habitat is more land than sea however, wear this with the classic combo of black rollneck, neutral chinos and – thanks to the Pelagos’s choice of techy titanium case over classic steel – a pair of boxfresh white trainers.

Blue Ref. M25600TB-0001

Cobalt, midnight, sky… when it comes to wristwatches, much like clothes, blue is the coolest and most versatile colour. Green may be a trend having a go, salmon suits only the swarthiest of tans, but the blue dial is one trend that looks set to stay, for good reason. So hats off to Tudor for a) answering everyone’s pleas for a blue version of the Pelagos in 2015, and b) exceeding everyone’s hopes with a shade that manages to channel the Maldives shallows. So, essentially, let this watch speak for itself, pairing with a muted palette of linens, vintage Persols and an insouciant swagger fit for a Riviera quayside.

LHD Ref. M25610TNL-0001

Back in the early seventies, the story goes that the French Navy’s elite frogmen made a special request to their watch supplier, Tudor: they wanted ‘left-handed’ versions of their Submariner diving watches, which could be worn on the right wrist with the crown on the left for easy adjustment. Before, some left-handed divers had even had to make do by wearing their watches upside down.

Bringing this little-known quirk of its history to light, Tudor took everyone by surprise in late 2016 with a new edition to the Pelagos diving range, named LHD for ‘Left Hand Drive’. Crown duly on the right (enabled by simply turning the in-house mechanics by 180º, and turning the hands 180º the other way), it also comes with two tastefully retro touches: urgent-red date-window and ‘Pelagos’ markings, plus so-called ‘beige’ luminescent paint to mimic the patina of vintage models (no, really, the official grade of SuperLuminova® is ‘Beige’).

The deliberately vintage vibe, in concert with utilitarian robustness, is ‘modern urbanite creative’ through and through – as nu-hipster as it gets. Think artisan denim workwear, trucker’s cap, and an alarming passion for talking ‘craft’ over a pint of similarly crafted IPA.

The Movement

A highfalutin ‘haute horlogerie’ movement, with its hand-polished screws and finicky tourbillon carriages or perpetual calendars is all very well, but designing a utilitarian ‘base calibre’ like Tudor’s MT5612 in lieu of the long-proven, industry-standard automatics made by Swatch Group’s ETA facility is – while less romantic – a far more impressive feat.

More have to be made on an industrialised level, to similar precision and tolerances, with a longer lifespan in terms of both physical robustness and future-proofing. Setting up a base-calibre ‘manufacture’ with all its CNC milling machines and expert technicians will cost upwards of €10 million and require years of development. Tudor is clearly stepping up by several gears.

Production is stepping up, too. With 2015’s original MT5601 movement complete with power reserve function having proved its horological chops in the North Flag model, this tiny powerhouse is now driving proceedings across Tudor’s men’s line, in various subtle iterations (the Pelagos’s MT5612 comes with a handy date function).

It’s proved its chops elsewhere in Switzerland, too, with industry stalwart Breitling now adapting the MT5601 for its own chronometers in a surprise exchange deal that sees the pilot-watchmaker supplying its own in-house B01 chronograph movement back to Tudor, who, by the way, still manages to keep the price point below the equivalent Breitling chronographs. Who knows how… we’ve all stopped asking questions like that, with Tudor’s ever-ascendant capabilities and (presumably) economies of scale.

[mrcoreymonroe]

Examining Another Bermuda Triangle Crash

When you say an airplane has disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle, people sit up and take notice. And if that airplane has recognizable names on board, they sit up even taller.

An accident occurred in the Bermuda Triangle on May 15, 2017, and the NTSB released its report on October 1 of this year. It involved a Mitsubishi MU-2B that had been flying at FL240 over the Atlantic Ocean en route from Puerto Rico to Titusville, Florida. There were four people on board, and all were presumed lost. Only a few pieces of wreckage were recovered by the U.S. Coast Guard. As of the time the NTSB's report was released, there were no signs of the main wreckage, nor had any bodies been recovered.

Many in the business, entertainment and fashion worlds recognized the names of the two adults on board. Jennifer Blumin, age 40, was the CEO of the Skylight Group, specializing in transforming unusual places into space for fashion shows, product introductions, photo shoots and fancy parties. Her 3-year-old and 4-year-old sons were on board. The pilot was Nathan Ulrich, age 52, a businessman and ex-husband of the Canadian film and TV actress Rae Dawn Chong, who is the daughter of comedian and actor Tommy Chong of Cheech & Chong fame. Blumin and Ulrich had been in a steady relationship.

As if to dispel any notion of this being another Bermuda Triangle mystery without even mentioning that infamous territory, the NTSB stated a probable cause without equivocation. The probable cause of the accident, it said, was the pilot's intentional flight into an area of known icing and convective thunderstorm activity, which resulted in loss of control of the airplane. Pretty conclusive, yet a conclusion reached without having examined the airplane wreckage, without having the benefit of listening to a cockpit voice recorder, without having the benefit of a flight data recorder to read out, and without having the benefit of examining any bodies to look for signs of unusual trauma or asphyxiation. Yet the Safety Board investigators gathered what information they could, and the investigation proceeded to its conclusion. After all, the NTSB collectively has a wealth of experience, including with MU-2B accidents.

In looking at the Safety Board's database, I counted 170 MU-2B accidents, foreign and domestic. Of those, 76 involved fatalities, with 220 people killed. That’s a lot when you take into account that during the manufacturing years of 1963 through 1986, from 700 to 800 of the aircraft were built, with different sources showing different numbers.

The accident airplane was an MU-2B-40 with 10 seats that had been manufactured in 1981. The twin-engine turboprop was powered by AiResearch TPE331 series engines, each producing 904 shaft horsepower, according to FAA registration data. The airplane had undergone an annual inspection and was signed off on December 3, 2016, with a total time of 4,634.2 hours.

The airplane was equipped with modern avionics, including dual ADS-B transponders, a satellite transceiver and the capability to receive and display NEXRAD weather images.

In 2005, the FAA conducted a special safety study relating to MU-2B airplanes after a number of accidents. It issued a Special Federal Aviation Regulation (SFAR), which required special training for pilots. Initial training was to include at least 20 hours of ground instruction and a minimum of six hours in the airplane or a qualified simulator. In addition to requiring the pilot to complete a training course final phase check, the FAA decided an MU-2B pilot-in-command must have logged a minimum of 100 hours in multiengine airplanes before being allowed to be PIC of an MU-2B.

The accident pilot had logged 1,483 total hours with 100 in MU-2B aircraft. He held a commercial certificate for single-engine and multiengine land airplanes and was instrument rated. An FAA investigator who examined the pilot's logbook reported that it appeared as if the flight time entries for two flights in a PA-34-300 aircraft used to build multiengine experience prior to his multiengine flight test had been altered to add 10 hours to the flight time.

The pilot's girlfriend, Blumin, was listed as the agent for a consulting company, which was the registered owner of the aircraft. The pilot began his training in the MU-2B on January 5, 2017, at a flight training company in Tennessee. Investigators learned that Blumin rode along on many of the flights. His logbook showed 74.5 hours of training in the aircraft, which included 3.2 hours on instruments. Part of the instruction dealt with handling the airplane in icing conditions. In 2003, the FAA had issued an Airworthiness Directive requiring that all MU-2B pilots watch a video on handing the airplane in icing conditions that had been produced by Mitsubishi. The pilot viewed the video and, according to an instructor, it was stressed that the purpose of the airplane's anti-icing and deicing equipment was to protect the airplane while getting out of the icing as quickly as possible.

The airplane departed the Rafael Hernández Airport at Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, at about 11 a.m. The destination was the Space Coast Regional Airport at Titusville. The takeoff was routine, and the airplane was soon at its cruise altitude of FL240. It flew essentially straight and level and at a steady airspeed on its IFR flight plan. At about 11:41, the pilot checked in with a Miami Center controller and reported level at FL240. The controller replied, “...roger, cleared direct, Piper papa india papa echo romeo, direct Titusville.” The pilot acknowledged.

At 11:47:53, the controller radioed the pilot, “...just to be advised your, uh, transponder just went off. I think it switched back on again.” The pilot responded, “Okay, let me know if it happens again, and I can try the, uh, second one.” The controller told the pilot, “roger that. If there's...weird how this works, if there's a cruise ship that, uh, at Grand Turk, which there could be just because you're at low altitude, it does interfere with it sometimes, but I got you again, radar contact, a hundred twenty-two miles southeast.” At 11:48:14, the pilot replied, “Position checks. Thanks.”

At 12:15:40 p.m., the controller tried to hand off the pilot to another controller. “November two two zero november, contact Miami Center one two five point one.” There was no response. Ten seconds later, the controller repeated the message and the pilot promptly replied, “Twenty five one, two zero november, good day.”

At 12:16:15, the pilot radioed the next controller, who failed to respond immediately. At 12:16:50, the controller radioed, “Last aircraft calling center, say again, I was off line.” The pilot checked in with his tail number, and the controller acknowledged.

At 12:35:43, the controller asked the pilot to switch frequencies: “November two two zero november, change to my frequency one two six point two seven.” There was no response. The controller tried again about 20 seconds later, but there still was no response. The controller tried again on the emergency frequency. There still was no response, but the controller kept trying until, at 12:40:32, a Southwest Airlines flight radioed, “Miami, Southwest fifteen fifty two, two zero november's trying to get hold of you.”

The controller asked the Southwest crew to relay a message to the MU-2B pilot to monitor the Miami Center frequency and try to check in again in about five minutes. Apparently, the MU-2B was in an area where two-way radio communications can be spotty. Finally, at about 12:44:42, Miami Center and the MU-2B resumed two-way radio contact.

At 1:14:16, Miami Center issued a thunderstorm alert to all aircraft, advising that details about the hazardous weather information were available on Flight Service frequencies. The thunderstorms were moving from the northwest at about 10 knots and had tops to FL390.

At 1:28:16, the controller told the pilot to change to “...Miami Center on one three four point eight.” The pilot acknowledged, telling the controller “...good day.” When the pilot contacted the next controller, the transmission dropped out and the controller asked the pilot to try again. There was no reply. The airplane's active target was lost from radar, but controllers weren't initially alarmed because in the area the MU-2B was going through, targets sometimes are temporarily lost. When that happens, the system generates a symbol in what's called “coast.” In this case, the target remained in coast for about 3 minutes, a sign that something was wrong. Numerous attempts by various controllers and flight crews of other aircraft to raise the MU-2B pilot were unsuccessful. The airplane had been traveling at about 300 knots and was lost from radar when it was about 37 miles east of the island of Eleuthera.

At about 2:10 p.m., Miami Center notified the U.S. Coast Guard Seventh District Command Center of the missing airplane. The Coast Guard dispatched three airplanes, a helicopter and the cutter Bernard C. Webber. The Air Force sent a C-130 and a Jayhawk helicopter. Customs and Border Patrol and the Royal Bahamas Defence Force sent ships. At approximately 3:30 p.m. the following day, May 16, 2017, the crew of a Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter located a debris field about 15 miles east of Eleuthera. A swimmer was lowered into the water to recover some of the debris. There was a fuel sheen on the water. The search continued for three days, but there was no sign of the airplane's occupants.

According to the pilot's flight history, he had flown along the accident route several times during the approximately four months he had been flying the MU-2B. He received text messages with weather briefing information from a commercial service at 3:210 a.m.and 3:17 a.m. on the morning of the accident. The information provided to the pilot covered the route from Puerto Rico to Titusville and then a route from Titusville to Islip, New York. Investigators could not determine whether the pilot had received any weather updates before taking off. The NTSB did not do an extensive study of the pilot's activities in the days before the accident, especially the night before. While doing a weather briefing at 3 o'clock in the morning may lead many people to conclude that the pilot must have not had as much solid sleep as might be desirable, the Safety Board said there was insufficient evidence to determine the extent to which fatigue may have affected his ability to fly or analyze the weather conditions that likely were enveloping the aircraft.

An NTSB meteorologist prepared a weather study for the flight and accident area. The study found that while the flight was in progress, a SIGMET was issued warning of frequent thunderstorms with tops to FL440 in the area where the airplane went down. Satellite images showed that the cloud tops actually did reach FL400. Reports created by the National Weather Service's Aviation Weather Center (AWC) designed to predict icing conditions showed that moderate to heavy icing was expected in the accident area and at the altitude at which the airplane was flying. Further, it indicated up to a 90 percent potential for Supercooled Large Droplets (SLD) to be present in the clouds close to where the airplane was lost from radar. The SLDs, according to upper air soundings, would likely have been present in clouds in the vicinity of the accident site between 15,000 feet and FL260.

SLDs can create an extremely hazardous condition for an airplane because they can be 100 times larger than the droplets that usually make up ice. In training material, the FAA explains, “...their mass is so great that they can strike well behind the protected areas of an aircraft. Despite icing certification limitations, accidents and incidents in SLD conditions have been documented, especially following sustained flight in freezing drizzle or freezing rain. Larger droplets have greater inertia and are less influenced by the airflow around the aircraft. As a result, larger droplets adhere to more of the aircraft surface and are more likely to move behind ice-protected surfaces ('flowback').”

The NTSB noted that at about 2:40 p.m., a pilot report of light to moderate rime icing in the area near the accident site was received from a Boeing 737 at FL250.

The Safety Board said the icing forecasts, including the SLD predictions, would have been available to the pilot via the AWC website before he took off.

While the Safety Board emphasizes that the pilot's only known weather briefing was about 8 hours before takeoff, it does not speculate about whether he used the airplane's avionics or an electronic flight bag to obtain updated weather information. It does, however, focus on there being no evidence from the radar returns or communications with ATC or other pilots that he recognized there were thunderstorms and icing conditions and attempted to avoid them.

Some may suggest that the NTSB should have left open a probable cause for this accident, given the paucity of physical evidence. Although icing and convective activity have, indeed, been at the core of numerous aircraft accidents, could there have been a catastrophic medical event? Or a sudden depressurization? Or a structural failure? Or a dual engine failure? Or a failed control system? Or something in combination with the weather? Or the Bermuda Triangle being its mysterious self? It's possible that, in the future, more than just the few pieces of debris that were recovered will be found and this accident will get a second look. That might serve to confirm what the NTSB concluded or take us in a very different direction.

Peter Katz is editor and publisher of NTSB Reporter, an independent monthly update on aircraft accident investigations and other news concerning the National Transportation Safety Board. To subscribe, visit www.ntsbreporter.us or write to: NTSB Reporter, Subscription Dept., P.O. Box 831, White Plains, NY 10602-0831.

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