X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ Diamonds, Dames, and Deception ❯ The Setup ( Chapter 1 )

Diamonds, Dames, and Deception

An X-Men comicverse fanfic
by Yimmy
(yimmy_kins@yahoo.com)



**** *************

Henry McCoy, renowned scientist, outspoken mutant, and former X-Man, rolled around in his bed, caught in the grip of yet another terrible nightmare. Throughout his life, the man called Beast had been subject to unspeakable horrors and atrocities, most of which would shatter the mind of a normal human. The comfort, the will to go on, the ability to keep fighting the “good” fight, stemmed from his determination to prevent those aforementioned disasters from falling upon anyone else.

But even the greatest of spirits break in due time. Hank broke six months ago when the madman, Vargas, broke every bone in his body and impaled his friend, Betsy Braddock, a.k.a. Psylocke, through the stomach, killing her. Even when the bones mended, something was never quite right with Hank after that. Perhaps it was the helplessness which seized him as he writhed on the cold floor or the empty gaze in Betsy’s eyes as the body bag was zipped up, but shortly afterward, he quit the X-Men. His resignation barreled into an ocean of responses, the most heated when Logan cornered him in his lab.

“Look Hank, Betts gave up her life so you an’ Rogue could live. I got no qualms with you takin’ time off an’ sortin’ out your thoughts. What rubs my fur the wrong way is you up and leaving the rest of your friends--your family--behind. The Hank I knew was never a quitter.”

“You are correct,” Beast allowed while lifting a heavy box of spare computer parts, “But the Hank you knew is dead. I think Ms. Pryde said it best when she took away Piotr’s ashes: ‘I’m tired of death.’ And frankly Logan, I am so very tired.”

More words were exchanged after that, eventually degrading into a fistfight which Emma Frost of all people had to break up. Logan left with a fractured jaw and a broken rib while Beast himself sported a broken nose. The rest of the parting exchanges didn’t come to blows, but the words smarted like no wound could. Disappointment, guilt, sadness, frustration, confusion, surprise, anger--each reaction attached itself to the appropriate face.

“Dis da way it ends, mon ami?” Gambit, cigarette at hand, leaning up against the doorframe while casting a wayward glance down the hall at a pissed off and semi-hurt Wolverine.

“Henry, don’t blame yourself. Blame me for your pain.” Storm, her toughened exterior adding yet another thick layer, ready to accept the hate of another for the good of the team.

“Ah’m gonna miss ya, Beast. Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?” Rogue, tears streaming down her face as the self-loathing and frustration reflected Hank’s own rattled state.



*Quite a trip down memory lane.*

The unexpected voice shattered the imagery littering Hank’s dreamscape. Caught between wakefulness and sleep, Beast felt the foreign presence exert its power and trap his panicking mind in place. A flash of pain lanced through his being, making him roar like an animal. Through squinted, tear soaked eyes, he saw the lithe form of Psylocke, the mark of the Crimson Dawn gone from her face, but other than that, quite alive.

Approaching her immobilized prey, Psylocke grinned sadistically, her psychic knife coming into existence. *Hank McCoy,* she purred, slowly tracing the knife around Beast’s jaw, *How sweet of you to still remember me.*

*This... isn’t.... real....* grunted Hank, resorting to denial to defend himself. *All in... my... my...*

*Your head? Sure, of course this is in your head. How else could I be doing this? Not like you left me with much of a body being buried at Braddock Manor for so long now.*

*Betsy, I’m so sorry. I... I...*

The psychic knife plunged through the captive mutant’s temple. *Tell them,* whispered Psylocke, *Tell them that I’ve come back to claim my revenge.*



Hank woke up screaming, sweat matting his blue fur to his skin. Heart pounding like a marching band bass drum, he heaved gulps of air as his entire body convulsed, the trademark aftermath of Betsy’s deadly psychic knife. Sheets were torn asunder while the mattress absorbed inhuman punishment, every item surrounding Beast bearing the brunt of his desperate flailing.

Soon, he stopped thrashing, the movements replaced by silence.

*****************

At Xavier’s Institute for Higher Learning, Emma Grace Frost carefully brought the cup of white chocolate mocha to her lips, savoring the coffee’s warmth and silky smoothness. Around her lay a sea of term papers, all in varying states of “gradedness.” Poet laureates and professional novelists these children were not, but a disturbing amount of the aforementioned papers read like train wrecks and in some cases even looked like them.

As a senior instructor at the school, Emma was responsible for reading over a good number of her students’ semester-end final project, the broadly defined “My Observations on Mutanthood.”

Rubbing her temples, Emma picked up a random wad of paper and steeled herself for the tedious and often painful task at hand. Wouldn’t something, ANYTHING, save her from the students’ half wit, half assed-

And the savior came in the form of someone knocking on the door. Giving a sigh of relief, Emma replaced the paper and reached out with her telepathy to see who she should thank for staving off this hideous eventuality. A pupil perhaps? Maybe even Charles, but he was unlikely. One of the groundskeepers?

The guessing game came to a screeching halt when she felt the semi-familiar, always distant (at least to Emma) Kitty Pryde.

She suppressed her urge to rifle through Pryde’s mind. Although Shadowcat was a welcomed ex-member of the X-teams, she made it known that she wanted nothing to do with death anymore. Occasionally, she’d show up or call the mansion in search of Wolverine, Nightcrawler, Beast, or the Professor--well, not Hank so much given how he’s off on his own. Never had she made an attempt to talk to Emma herself, not that the blonde cared or minded. After all, their first impressions made years ago didn’t go well, and ever since then, whenever they were on the same side, an aura of distrust came between them.

Emma shut off the reminiscing part of her mind and called out, “Katherine, please come in.”

“Thank you.”

She looked... rejuvenated. Last Emma saw Kitty, she was haggard and tired. Her hair was short then, her way of dress coarse and her posture rough--par for the course for an X-Man. Now, this Pryde looked different, complete with a thick offering of brown locks and a sense of serenity gained from having the world run her over about a hundred too many times.

*In other words,* Emma mused, *She looks likes me.*

She quickly brushed that fleeting thought aside. “What can I do for you, Katherine?”

Oh, make no mistake about it: Shadowcat was here only because of a last resort. No way would she bare her neck to “Frosty” willingly. All her various mentors, acquaintances, and alternate-dimensional friends must’ve failed her before she even considered darkening the White Queen’s doorstep.

The two had an understanding like that.

Without preamble, Kitty said, “I was wondering if you could help me find Hank.”

So many replies to the request, some hostile, some compliant, all pushing the envelope. But why? Absolutely no reason to be condescending, that was the new Emma Frost’s philosophy. Let them have it when they deserved it because anything otherwise would waste too much energy, energy she didn’t have anymore after taking this damned job.

Instead, Emma asked a question out of genuine concern. “Is there something wrong with Hank?”

The Beast was a regal man, a thorough-bred gentleman, and when most had written her off, he didn’t. A part of her deep down (VERY deep down) cared for the blue haired mongrel. Unless something was amiss, why wouldn’t or couldn’t Kitty get in touch with him? The resources at her disposal were more than capable of scouring for one man sized furball.

“He’s just gone,” Kitty replied, trying to keep the conversation as professional as possible, “I went to his apartment a day ago and he wasn’t there. The bedroom was in ruins but I couldn’t find any clues where he went. I’ve tried calling the Professor but no one’s picking up...”

Emma nodded slightly. “Off saving the Summers family tree again.”

“I see...”

“And yes Katherine, I will help you find Hank.”

Kitty let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “When can we get started?”

“Right now,” the White Queen stated, picking up the phone and dialing a number. Seconds ticked by before someone picked up. “Hello Isa. Yes, good day to you too. I’m ecstatic over your ability to read the Caller ID screen. I need you to run a search for me. Why? Because I said so. No time you say? Let me put it this way: I own the phone you’re using, the floor you’re standing on, and the computer holding all your research. Yes. Yes, call it ‘funder’s perks’ if you like. Ok, that’s more like it. Thank you for your cooperation. Now, search for one Dr. Henry McCoy. Yes, THE Doctor Henry ‘Hank’ McCoy. Call my cell with the results.”

With just a little extra force than necessary, Emma threw down the phone. She returned her gaze to Kitty, charming smile erasing all signs of her infamous ice queen demeanor. “Would you care to have a seat?”

Kitty stood dumbfounded. “What just happened?”

Emma sat and shrugged. “I called in a favor.”

“Who happens to have a mutant tracking device?”

“My dear, surely you don’t think Frost Enterprises is just a fancy name. I have subsidiaries which branch out into all facets of the global market. Funding mutant research happens to be a subject very dear to my heart.”

Kitty bit back the caustic remark threatening to spill from her mouth. Emma always managed to put her on the edge, but as it was, the blonde was all smiles and sunshine. Instead, Kitty delved into more acceptable conversation pieces.

“What other kinds of research do you endorse?”

“Dangerous research,” Emma replied, “Research that bigots and hostile government figures would kill to get a piece of. I control the most detrimental projects so that they will not get out and make my world a worse place for me.”

“What about Cerebra?”

“Forge is fixing it. Won’t be ready for another week.”

The two stared at each other for a good ten minutes after that. Kitty tried to say something more to break the silence, but nothing seemed appropriate under the White Queen’s unwavering gaze. Emma, for her part, internally laughed, amused at the sheer intimidating presence she held over Kitty.

Who ever said Emma wasn’t petty?

The staring match would’ve continued indefinitely if an explosion didn’t rock the mansion. Both women leapt to action right away, scrambling for the window to try and get a sense of what was happening. Besides the prerequisite dust, soot, debris, and demolished front gate (*Really,* Emma thought to herself, *How many times has that thing been destroyed like that? Why, I know I did that at least two times.*), nothing seemed to be amiss.

No laughing villain. No charging humans. No protesters (Thank God). No additional explosions. Nothing.

“Come on,” Kitty said. She grabbed Emma’s wrist and activated her powers, phasing them through the wall and slowly touching down on the front lawn.

Being close to Christmas, many students left to be with family. If not that, then at least they were having a relaxing day out on the town. Add the pending Summers family crisis to the mix, and well, that left Xavier’s Institute nearly abandoned. Good thing too since the children tended to flock toward random explosions and other forms of trouble like a moth to a flame.

Despite not being frontline fighters, the two had more than enough experience to approach with caution. Kitty phased and took the lead while Emma held back and scanned for signs of trouble. The blonde only picked up one signature, and it was an awfully familiar signature.

“Katherine!” yelled Emma. “Henry is in the debris!”

Shadowcat nodded and disappeared into the dust. Emma continued scouting, keeping an eye on Kitty and another on potential danger.

*All clear,* Emma telepathically said. *Phase Henry out of the debris so we can assist him.*

A few grunts accompanied the mental reply. *Easy enough for you to say, Emma! Hank weighs a ton! Little help here?!*

*And ruin my Gucci boots?*

*This is no time to be vain!* Kitty shouted, after which some unintelligible grumbles came out.

*You’re young,* Emma shot back, smiling at Kitty’s choice words, *I can’t phase, and Henry, though hurt, isn’t in critical condition. You can handle it.*

*Unlike your Gucci boots?*

*Yes, unlike my Gucci boots.*

Reappearing from the destruction with Hank in a tow, Kitty materialized and waved Emma over. “Fat help you were,” she said out of frustration, aloud this time.

“On the contrary,” Emma pointed out, “You asked me to find Henry for you, and voila, here he is.”

Letting the conversation die, they positioned themselves to carry the Beast into the infirmary. As she lifted Hank’s arm so she could put it over her shoulder, Emma spotted a sliver of paper clenched in the man’s left fist. Her curiosity got the better of her as she pulled it from his grasp and shoved it in her pocket.

Kitty was none the wiser.

Halfway to the mansion, Emma sensed another presence appear out of nowhere. Her inability to identify, much less get a good read, on the subject made her shout a “Look out!”

The pessimist in Emma expected to be taken off her feet or shot at, and by reflex, she shifted into her diamond form. Strength augmented, she pulled the Beast into her arms and spun around to meet the threat. Kitty wasn’t idle either as she rolled to the side, her battle hardened instincts making her react before her mind caught up.

And catch up it did.

“Brian?” Kitty said upon seeing the ex-Captain Britain--former Excalibur teammate, dear friend, and current ruler of the Otherworld--dressed in a jeans/t-shirt ensemble and hovering in midair.

For a second, the man’s eyes lit up in joyous recognition, but then his expression dulled when he remembered why he was here. “Kitty, are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” stated Emma. “I want to know what’s going on, Mr. Braddock.”

Squashing the annoyance at having been interrupted, Brian focused on the White Queen. “I take it you just found Dr. McCoy?”

Emma nodded.

“This,” Brian sighed, “is going to take smidge of time. Come on, I’ll help you with him and fill you in on what’s happening.”

*****************

The trio sat in the medlab waiting room, each nursing a cup of coffee. Hank was in stable condition--few bruises, maybe a concussion--and was still unconscious. There were signs of a telepathic attack too. While Emma wanted to do an in-depth mental probe, she figured the information garnered from Captain Britain probably fell in the “good-to-know” category. She kept her mouth shut and let old Excalibur duo do the talking.

“I’ll get right to it,” Brian began, “There’s been series of cataclysmic events in the realms surrounding earth and all sorts of nasties have gotten loose. Kitty, you remember Belasco.”

“Do I ever,” the woman growled, taking a page straight out of Wolverine’s playbook.

Emma at least raised an eyebrow, but Brian seemed used to the mannerism. He continued on without even acknowledging it. “He tried to retake Limbo, and to bolster his forces, he took powerful spirits, warped them, and put them into demons. With the help of Doctor Strange, the new Magik, and the Black Knight, we managed to push him and his ilk back. But...”

Sighing, Kitty shrunk into her chair. “There’s always a but...”

The man grimly nodded. “Belasco has been banished, but the spirits he conjured weren’t. Freed from their master, they rampaged over the Otherworld, slaking their demonic thirst. I’ve personally dealt with most of the spirits, healing them and returning them to their rightful place. However, there are two spirits that remain, and with their combined knowledge and powers, they’ve eluded us and found a way into this world.”

“You and Meggan rule the Otherworld,” Kitty pointed out. “Doctor Strange is almost infallible. Amanda controls access from there to here. How could they make it here?”

“One of the spirits is Illyana.”

Kitty bolted up like electricity shot through her. She remembered the late nights comforting Illyana over what Belasco did to her. She remembered the agony her friend endured at the demon’s tutelage. She remembered the pains she went through to avoid her fate. She remembered the immense responsibilities the girl took on when she began Magik. She remembered her noble acts, kind soul, and endearing smile. She remembered promising Peter to keep her safe. Most of all, she remembered burying Illyana after the Legacy Virus took its toll.

“No!” yelled Kitty, “That... that THING already ruined enough of Illyana’s life! He couldn’t have done that to her! He can’t have...”

“But he did. With her command of the stepping disks, Belasco wanted to gain access to Earth and overtake mankind. He fueled all his minions with hate so they’d be easy control--in particular, hate against everything not demonic.”

Despite finding the story intriguing, Emma couldn’t help but notice, “You said there were two spirits you’ve yet to recapture. Who is the second one?”

Brian’s shoulders slumped at the question. “The second spirit is my sister, Betsy.”

You could hear a pin drop in the room. Kitty was the first to break the silence, pulling the man into an embrace. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Brian...”

“Thank you,” he replied. The conversation, however, seemed like a well-worn one. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and spun the finish to his tale. “Belasco knew what he was doing. He knew my sister had insights into my abilities and habits. He knew she could get around me. He knew she could strike at the X-Men whom he viewed as his greatest obstacle to overcome when he made it to Earth. The bastard also knew about her imprisonment of the Shadow King, and he’s loosened Betsy’s hold on the beast so she could become more powerful but still have him under control. In addition, he imbued Betsy with a strong hate for the X-Men, making her think that it was all of you who left her for dead. So, Illyana and Betsy... with their combined abilities, they’ve been able to elude us and come to this world to act on the hate Belasco left them with.”

He looked in the direction of the room holding the Beast. “Which brings me to Dr. McCoy. He’s their first victim so far, and Meggan and I have been playing catch up with them for the past two days. I tried to warn all of you, but they got here before me.”

“We should get the whole team,” said Kitty. “We’ve got to help Illyana and Betsy! Look what they did to Hank already. What if they do this to the people in the X-Corps? We’ve got to gather everyone and put a stop to th-”

“No,” Emma interrupted.

Brian and Kitty looked at the blonde like she’d sprouted another head. “What?!” they both exclaimed.

The White Queen crossed her legs, making her captive audience stew a few seconds. “We don’t mass the troops, or, as Rogue so eloquently puts it, ‘Cowboy up.’ That’s exactly what these two want. Think about it for a second: why return the Beast to us if they had him captured? If I remember correctly, Ms. Rasputin’s power allowed her to teleport places without much fanfare. They risked exposure and capture by blowing up the mansion gates and leaving him here.

“In my experience on the other side of the proverbial fence, I’ve noticed that the X-Men swarm like a beehive, massing and attacking once an individual has been threatened. These two are short on manpower and hunted by superior foes--they know that if they’re going to irreparably damage the X-Men, they only have one chance to do it. With Henry thusly injured and our pride hurt, we’ll come together and that’s when they’ll unleash whatever they have planned. They’re gambling that they’ll have a little time to prepare themselves as we sort out the confusion. If we’re going to bring a favorable end to this fiasco, we have to strike now with a small team. That way, we minimize our reaction time and put them in an awkward position, making them unable to decide whether they’ll use their last resort or not.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Brian, more out of curiosity rather than sarcasm or malice.

“Easy. They didn’t attack us outright. If they weren’t worried about our numbers or powers, they would’ve gutted the mansion, taken Katherine and myself, and killed us before you showed up. As it is, their caution shows their concern. And about whatever coup de grace they have up their sleeve? All signs point to one with Henry being left here, the mansion being relatively unharmed, and the note they put in Henry’s hand.”

“Wait,” said Kitty, “What note?”

The blonde retrieved the slip of paper from her pocket and showed it to her companions. “I found it in the Beast’s left hand as we were hauling him up here. Read it for yourself.”

And the note only contained one line: “The Shadow King will live. –Psylocke.”

*****************

“Great,” Kitty mumbled as the group trudged through a swampy but barren Limbo, “Tell me how the four of us are suppose to prevent this Shadow King from leaping out of Betsy and killing everyone?”

Magik, known to Kitty as Nightcrawler’s former girlfriend, Amanda Sefton, shrugged. “Not letting the Shadow King out would be a nice start.”

“Don’t worry,” Emma said. “It’s an empty threat.”

Kitty couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “Why don’t you enlighten us, your highness?”

“Mind your manners,” smiled Emma, though her words held a venomous touch. “It’s an empty threat because if Psylocke wanted the Shadow King to be out, he would already be wrecking havoc regardless of our intervention. Seeing as my telepathy is intact, the Shadow King should still lie under her control. And since he isn’t out, that leads me to assume his presence would be detrimental to our former friends as well. They’ll be sorely disappointed at seeing so few of us present and think twice before using what is looking more and more like a last resort.”

“What if Psylocke doesn’t care and already has the Shadow King waiting for us?” Magik asked.

“Then we’re fucked,” the blonde said without hesitation.

Not for the first time today, Kitty admitted her respect for Emma, only this time, she voiced it. “How do you analyze the situation like that?”

“Business acumen. Women’s intuition. I’ve had a great deal of practice in both.”

Brian steered the conversation toward more pressing matters. Despite his many times facing it, Brian didn’t like to think about impending doom, especially since that impending doom came in the form of his sister. “You really cannot sense them, Magik? Limbo is your realm.”

The woman frowned. “Illyana always hides her tracks well. I know they opened a portal into this part of Limbo recently, but I can’t pinpoint them.” She paused before asking, “Are the others having any success?”

“No,” said Brian after he mentally reached out to check on his wife’s efforts, “Meggan, Stephen, and Dane are coming up with nothing too. If we keep walking, we’ll be meeting them soon...”

“Which means this search has been a waste of time,” Magik finished, swiping her sword against an unfortunate piece of vegetation.

The ruler of the Otherworld turned to Emma. “Your telepathic abilities telling you anything?”

“Other than this place is a flithy wasteland?”

On the group walked, each step weighing further on their spirits. “You do realize the longer we take to find them, the better prepared they are going to be to fight us,” said Kitty.

No one answered her. They just kept walking.

“What are we going to do when we find them?” she pressed.

“Hopefully, we’ll have the element of surprise,” Brian answered for everyone. “With two parties, we can pin them down and either Doctor Strange or myself can cleanse their souls. It doesn’t take too-”

The blinding pain hit Brian like a kick in the pants. Immediately, his mind flashed to his Meggan being ruthlessly attacked by Illyana. Before he could even express the images assaulting him, a green column of mystical energy erupted from the air and struck an area up ahead like a lightning bolt.

Taking a clue from Brian’s pained face and the sudden output of power, Amanda concluded that their prey was found. She focused, found the battle, and effortlessly whisked her group away to join in.

While Amanda and Brian, both used to teleporting, landed on their feet, Kitty and Emma tumbled to the ground, caught unawares by the sudden displacement.

“Little warning next time?” Shadowcat said as she rubbed her sore behind.

All levity got thrown aside when the four surveyed the carnage. Meggan was down, a gaping wound in her side bleeding profusely. The Black Knight looked worse for the wear--his leg was bent in an unnatural position as he sat guard over Meggan. Illyana, dressed in her old Magik armor, circled them like a vulture, her twisted version of her Soulsword gleaming with inhuman thirst. Doctor Strange--separated from his companions--hovered over the ground, a green globe of energy shielding him from Psylocke’s psychic knife.

Immediately, Brian leapt to Meggan’s aid, hurling himself at Illyana. The maneuver took the sorceress off-guard, sending her on an unscheduled flight and separating her from her sword. Magik tried to follow up Brian’s performance by disabling Psylocke, but the woman was too good, too slippery. In the midst of pressing her advantage on Strange, the demonic incarnation of Betsy managed to find the time to extend a set of claws from her fingertips and rake Amanda across the breastplate, penetrating and drawing blood.

The battle stopped for a split second as everyone on the battlefield gathered themselves.

“Well,” Psylocke laughed, noticing that she was surrounded, “Wondered when my dear brother would show up with his friends. Tell me, luv, where’s everyone else? Where’s Ororo and the rest of her traitors? Where’s Jean and her legendary Phoenix Force? Hiding behind a tree?”

Emma brushed the thin layer of slime off her pant leg and straightened her back. “I’m afraid what you see is what you get, Elisabeth.”

“The White Queen?” she snorted. “I threaten to unleash the Shadow King on the world again and all Xavier sends is YOU?!”

“I’m more than you can handle, darling,” Emma said, calmly walking up to Betsy.

Seeing Illyana stunned and Magik wounded, Brian moved to face his sister, but Doctor Strange lifted a hand up to get his attention.

“We need to stop Illyana first,” the Sorcerer Supreme said. “Without her, your sister cannot escape.”

A great explosion from Illyana’s general direction shook the ground. It threw the Black Knight onto his back, aggravated Meggan’s wound, and assaulted everyone else with swamp water and dirt. Standing at the epicenter was an increasing demonic looking Illyana, complete with glowing red eyes, scaly skin, and big, sharp, saliva-dripping fangs. Her Soulsword also reappeared in her hand.

“Who said anything about escaping?” she roared, charging into the crowd with reckless abandon. His wife and friends injured, Brian had to acquiesce to Strange’s direction.

That left one telepath to duke it out with another.

*****************

“I think you’ve had enough,” taunted Psylocke.

Currently, she straddled a prone Emma who was doing her damnedest to stop the psychic knife from plunging into her skull. The White Queen recalled something about the knife being a telekinetic attack now, not a telepathic one. Either way, she didn’t want to get skewered by that thing. For the time being, unidentifiable swamp grime coated her white leather jacket, stray branches scuffed up her Gucci boots, the fist fight ripped up her favorite pair of gloves, and her right ankle seemed to be sprained.

That didn’t set too well with Emma.

After a little more struggling, Psylocke’s psychic knife shrunk, then with soft flicker, disappeared. Her eyes grew wide in astonishment, quite a contrast against Emma’s triumphant smile.

“Bad Betsy, no telepathy for you,” the blonde sweetly chided.

While Betsy did rely heavily on her powers, she wasn’t helpless without them. She possessed an impressive array of martial arts training, and the blows which rained down on Emma proved just how deadly Psylocke could be. Add to the fighting ability her enhanced demonic strength and speed, and well, after the seventh punch to her side, Emma almost felt like taking her chances with the psychic knife.

Pinned up to a tree by her neck, Emma lost her mental hold over Psylocke: pain did that to concentration. At first, she hoped to bait the woman, worm through her mind, and simply shut her down with a mental blast. Betsy’s defenses were formidable, but her overwhelming anger allowed the blonde to sneak in undetected, bypass most of her shields, and wait for the right moment to short circuit everything. Emma thought she had Betsy beat--that’s why she tipped her hand and turned off the psychic knife--but those aforementioned defenses were more formidable than they originally appeared.

Despite Emma’s supreme pride in her physical abilities, she knew she couldn’t beat Betsy in hand-to-hand combat. While she could assume her diamond form and ignore the pain, the blonde didn’t want to tip her hand again unless absolutely necessary.

Psylocke’s psychic knife flared back into existence. “You like playing with people’s minds, don’t you?”

Ok, this was looking more and more like “absolutely necessary.”

“How about a taste of your own medicine?”

Before Emma could shift, Psylocke plunged the psychic manifestation into her temple. A small, detached part of the blonde marveled at the feeling. She expected her brains to eject out of her skull before icy coldness entombed her body. However, with the Shadow King already half loose, Psylocke’s telepathic powers reasserted themselves and produced quite a unique sensation.

Neural synapses misfired, thought processes stopped, and impulses ceased. The world Emma felt so starkly--the swamp grime, the bruised rib, the gloved hand choking her, the stale air--collapsed, and in moments, she was trapped in her own fractured self.

While most telepathic invaders got flattened by stiff countermeasures when testing the White Queen, Psylocke strolled right in with no effort. Shining white walls and innumerable traps were destroyed, leveled by the psychic knife. The few times the two had mentally jousted, Emma wore a idealized (a.k.a. menacing) version of her Hellfire outfit and the battleground always contained legions of adoring servants. Her heels gleamed and her voice shook the mindscape. So great was her control that the astral plane seemed to bend to her will.

This time, Betsy found the blonde kneeling, shivering, and naked underneath a spotlight.
Grandiose self imagery, mental defenses, and discipline that took years to perfect all went out the door. The White Queen looked pathetic, like a sobbing little girl who’d lost her dog.

On the other hand, Psylocke was the epitome of destruction. Shadows wrapped around her, clothing her in darkness much the same way the Crimson Dawn did. A presence extended from one of the shadows behind her, and it took the form of a nebulous, man-shape silhouette. The two moved as one, plowing through Emma’s consciousness like visions of death.

*This will be so sweet,* said Psylocke as she knelt down to caress the blonde’s cheek, *I saw your plan to stop my revenge. Ingenious, and dare I say it, a mite brave too. But graveyards are lined with brave people, and my dear, you are going to be joining them very soon.*

Her fleeting touch became a vice grip, lifting Emma by her jaw. Since this was the astral plane and vocal chords weren’t needed, Emma screamed at the mental violation. A tightening of the hand only increased the noise.

*The Shadow King needs his meal, and you are going to be the perfect breakfast spread. Isn’t that wonderful, Emma? You’re going to be eaten to death. It’s an appropriate way for someone like you to go. The Shadow King is going to take your consciousness and your power and make them mine. You’ll be a... a... ARRRGH!*

Unexpectedly, the pressure dissipated. Too weak to act, Emma could only look up and see her captor--along with the thing behind her whom she assumed as the Shadow King--wail in agony. The shadows unraveled and split open. Formerly darkened patches became flesh colored. Then, a head broke through from the left shoulder. Everywhere flesh showed up, darkness retreated.

With a sickening rip, the real Betsy, one free of demonic taint, burst forth from the her darkened counterpart.

*NO!* roared the mangled shadow.

But it was too late. Betsy--sweating, gasping, and shaking--had escaped from Belasco’s mental prison. Her shadow and the Shadow King didn’t like that very much. They disliked it even more when Emma’s mindscape flaired back to life, her defenses and mental projection of herself slowly recovering from the psychic knife.

Now clothed in her X-Men outfit, the White Queen shifted her attention to the duo who hurt her. *You’re going to pay for ruining my Gucci boots,* she said, hate permeating her every fiber.

She hurled a pulsating lance of mental energies at Psylocke’s shadow, but instead reeling from the force, the shadow absorbed it. Shortly thereafter, the wounds garnered from Betsy tearing herself from the shadow closed, and the horrible wailing degenerated into laughter.

Angered at the gesture, Emma prepared to send another bolt at the Shadow King, but Betsy stopped her.

*Don’t,* the woman urged between breaths. *Farouk gets his power from your negative emotions. Throwing mental blasts like that only feed him.*

*And feed I shall,* rumbled the Shadow King, absorbing Betsy’s silhouette. *Your friend is so full of hate and anger! You’ve pleased me greatly by coming into this mind.*

Emma cracked a smile. Finally, something went her way today. Perhaps it would even put an end to this drama. Taking a deep breath, she crystallized into her diamond form.

*****************

Kitty knew Illyana’s Soulsword could slice her even while phasing. Happened before, and the way things were going, it was bound to happen again. This Illyana was a wild animal, savagely attacking with blade and magic alike. Because of her aggressiveness, Brian teleported both Meggan and the Black Knight out of Limbo to heal them. Doctor Strange, in his ever confident voice, assured Brian that Illyana would be subdued...

Which left three people--Strange, Amanda, and Kitty herself (seeing as how Emma was in a psychic battle with Betsy)--to deal with a very insane, very violent, very dangerous former ruler of Limbo...

Which, if you think about it, wouldn’t have been so bad if all they wanted to do was subdue her in the most traditional sense, as in killing her. With Strange’s mystical abilities and Amanda’s spells, the problem wasn’t so much with killing as it was with overkilling. But, they weren’t trying to kill Illyana.

So between them not trying to kill Illyana and Illyana trying her gosh-darned hardest to kill them, the trio of heroes had problems...

Least of which was Kitty’s unfamiliarity with magical combat. True, she knew about it, observed it, even briefly took part in it, but trained battle Magnus she was not. Like the incoming fireball for instance. She knew it was an extension of the caster’s will channeled through mystical items and training.

But try as she might, she never could throw fireballs.

Kitty phased, letting the flames shoot through her and into the swamp. That was all she was good for: avoiding attacks. Her bare knuckles didn’t do any damage to Illyana thanks to her armor and demonic endurance. Trust me, she tried. Getting close enough to attack was also a big concern. The environment only had twigs and crud, but it wasn’t going to be of any use.

Or was it?

She scrounged around for a long, sharp branch. Hefting it in both hands, she tested out the improvised weapon and found it surprisingly well balanced. Then, recalling Wolverine’s lessons in stealth and ambush, Shadowcat melted into the vegetation.

On and on the fight between Strange, Magik, and Illyana raged. Illyana closed in on Strange, not allowing him a chance to cast any of his many spells. At the same time, she threw wild energies in Amanda’s general direction, enough to keep the woman off balance. There was a hope of Illyana tiring herself out, but after too many closes calls, a couple glancing blows, and a smattering of cuts, Strange and Magik decided they couldn’t count on that strategy.

A dual assault, unrelenting from all sides, came to the forefront, but still, Illyana wouldn’t budge. Between blasts from Strange and swordplay from Amanda, numerous wounds marked her like a checkerboard. Only none of it fazed her, and to everyone’s surprise, the injuries started healing so fast that it made Wolverine’s healing factor look human. Things went further downhill when Amanda made the observation that the longer the fight dragged on, the more Illyana resembled her Darkchylde persona--ever more violent and powerful.

Hidden behind an outcropping, Kitty waited to strike. Illyana had to be distracted and close by. Her plan was simple: sneak up on Illyana, attack while phasing the stick, and get this weird version of the Soulsword away from her. Hopefully the combination of ambush, attack, and disarming would give Doctor Strange enough time to do what he had to do.

There! An opportunity!

Amanda charged while Strange hurled a jet of fire. Concentration split, Illyana didn’t notice Kitty dart from her hiding place and shove her weapon into her sword arm’s shoulder. In fact, the demon didn’t even feel any pain until Kitty stopped phasing, leaving the wood impaled in her body. Leaving nothing to chance, Kitty let go of her weapon, grabbed Illyana’s forearm from behind, and knocked the Soulsword loose.

A few choice moves had the demon falling to the ground. Wasting no time, Kitty jumped on Illyana’s back while using the stick (still protruding out of her shoulder) as leverage.

Amidst the growling and roaring and screaming, Illyana’s eyes suddenly cleared. Her features regained their human appearance. Even the Soulsword she wielded fizzled out of existence.

Kitty gasped at the change. “Illyana?”

“Kitty,” came a familiar, fragile voice.

Emotions bottled up since hearing of Belasco’s newest scheme bubbled to the surface. The gravity, the wrongness of attacking a friend crushed Kitty’s barriers. The shred of hope the woman held out for Illyana grew, buoyed by one single word being uttered. For all of the fight, Kitty didn’t let the memories of Illyana and Betsy stop her from helping Brian, but now with it over, she couldn’t help but sag, exhausted by the emotional effort to separate between friend and foe.

“Kitty,” Illyana whispered again.

As tears threatened to fall , Kitty released the woman from her hold. “Illyana...”

“Big mistake.”

The strike happened too quickly for either Amanda or Strange to shout a warning. One second Kitty kneeled over Illyana; the next, Shadowcat lay on the ground, blood spilling from the slash across her stomach. Her vision blurred, but Kitty made out a blood-soaked Illyana looming over her, branch removed from shoulder and tainted Soulsword in hand. Kitty couldn’t be sure, but Illyana seemed to be laughing as she raised her blade for the finishing blow.

Kitty knew Illyana’s Soulsword could slice her even while phasing. Too hurt to move, too weak to intercept the blow, Kitty waited for death to come. Funny how after battling so many supervillains, interdimensional threats, and otherworldly creatures, she would die at her best friend’s hands.

From somewhere close by, Doctor Strange’s thundering voice spoke words of power. They sent shivers up Kitty’s spine moments before she blacked out.

*****************

Betsy liked diamonds. On her tenth birthday, her father gave her a shining, gleaming diamond necklace which became her most treasured possession. Throughout her tumultuous life, she’d strived to find diamonds that equalled or surpassed the luster of that gift. Before the elder Braddock passed away, he told his daughter about the necklace’s mystical origins and how it was a one of its kind item. Thus, she failed in her search, but the failure didn’t matter. After all, Betsy liked diamonds.

She just never knew that diamonds would be her salvation one of these days.

As Amahl Farouk the Shadow King prepared to feed, Emma Grace Frost activated her secondary mutation. Thanks to a genetic flaw, whenever Emma turned to diamond, she became psychically mute, unable to access her powers or allow others to invade her mind. Also, her new form blunted her sensations and emotions, stripping her ability to feel. Things that normally earned her ire slid off of her, comments that incensed her went unheard, and immense pressure fell to the wayside.

Emma’s transformation cut Farouk off from the outside world where he drew his power from. Her emotionless state prevented the Shadow King from feeding off of her. Her psymute mind froze all telepathic communication. The change in Emma’s mindscape manifested itself as diamond encrusting everyone and everything.

Emma had Betsy and Farouk trapped.

But Emma’s form wasn’t perfect--see aforementioned genetic flaw. She also had never attempted her transformation while others were inside her head. The analytical part of her, the only one active at the moment, looked upon this as a learning experience.

*Emma,* Betsy called out. *Emma! Can you hear me?*

*Interesting. You can still communicate.*

Interesting indeed. Being psymute didn’t hinder Betsy’s words. Maybe it was because Betsy really was in Emma’s head and not trying to get in from the outside. Maybe it was because of another genetic flaw. Maybe it was because she continued to evolve after her mutation.

But that line of thought was destined for another time.

*Emma, can you somehow get me to Farouk? I can harm him if he’s weakened.*

Another interesting thought. *How do you know he is being weakened as we speak?*

*I saw everything when I came into your mind.*

A beat of silence. *Everything?*

*Yes, everything from your childhood to what you want to accomplish with this plan of yours. You’re hoping to cut him off from his power source and starve him. And I’m telling you, it HAS to be working. The Shadow King needs a great deal of negative emotions to sustain him, so if he isn’t in contact with other minds, he’s starving.*

*If you saw everything, then you know I cannot access my telepathic powers. Us conversing is already an anomaly.*

*But you haven’t done this before! You were just thinking that before I called out to you!*

*You... you heard me thinking to myself?*

Betsy did her best approximation of a scowl, but being surrounded by diamond made the attempt moot. *Do you want to be stuck like this forever? We have to act if we want to survive. Every second we waste is another second Farouk has to try and escape.*

*Fine, Elisabeth. What is your suggestion?*

*We can merge our abilities so I can navigate through your mind. Hopefully, you can maintain your form while I attack the Shadow King.*

*That is only wishful thinking.*

*No. Jean and I, we tried something like that when she took some of my telepathy and gave me her telekinetic powers. We used the power gathered from Farouk and the Phoenix to combine our consciousness then seperate ourselves out.*

*We don’t have the energies of two cosmic beings at our disposal,* Emma scoffed. *At the moment, we only have one, and he is not cooperating.*

*We don’t need that much energy because this won’t take long... if it works.*

*And what are the risks?*

*Our minds never seperating from each other? Both of us becoming brain dead? I don’t know. I’ve only tried this once, and the only time I did, I succeeded.*

If Emma could feel emotions, she’d guess she’d be feeling annoyance right now. Yes, annoyance, right up there with uncertainity and fear. What was better? To be the prison of the Shadow King or his mid-day snack? How about none of the above? Choices, choices...

*Do what you must,* Emma acquised.

Not like Betsy wasn’t going to try with or without Emma’s consent. For too long she’d lived under Farouk’s influence. For too long she’d been a mere hanger on. For too long she’d been deprived of peace, the one thing she thought she’d get when she died. For too long she’d watch that... that... thing use her against her own brother.

She walked a bitter road. Belasco entrapped her soul with his magic, shoved her into a demon’s body, then tortured her for what seemed like an eternity. Her boundless rage fueled the Shadow King’s power, allowing him to slip past her control. In turn, Belasco fed Farouk, making him cloud her mind and submit to the demon’s will.

No more. Brian banished Belasco. Emma had Farouk trapped. Now, Betsy needed draw on the remaining telepathic abilities Jean left behind to put her bane away forever.

Easy. Like killing an elephant with a butterknife.

Betsy tried to find some part of the White Queen vulnerable to mental abilities. They could communicate, so that meant something somewhere allowed a measure of psychic manipulation. If she had more power and infinite time, she might figure out everything, but working under these conditions amounted to searching for a needle in a haystack while handcuffed, blindfolded, and drugged. Basically, in a word, impossible.

Then again, X-Men lived on the ragged edge of impossible.

*Think,* Betsy mumbled to herself. When Jean did it, she entered Betsy’s mind and deconstructed a small part of herself--in essence, her telekinetic powers--sending it to replace the bonds which held Farouk. To reform herself, Jean had to take the aforementioned excised bonds--which was most of Betsy’s telepathy--and claim it as her own. During the exchange, Betsy felt the enormity of Jean’s powers and saw the Phoenix burning through her, waiting for the right time to rise to its full strength.

And for that moment, Betsy felt like the Phoenix was part of her too. It seared her soul, almost like it wanted to claim her, to gift her with its all-consuming power. Later on, Jean would say that while Betsy saw the Phoenix, the redhead herself experienced the burden of the Shadow King’s presence. Wanting to escape, she pooled all the energies present and seperated herself from Betsy. In the process, both women collapsed, Farouk’s incessant mental shrieks quieted, and the Phoenix became silent.

Hoping to make progress, Betsy began to deconstruct her mental image. Her uniform rippled, eventually becoming a swirl of pink that enveloped her body. She sent the energies outward and was rewarded with a wave of surprise from Emma.

*What are you doing?*

*I don’t know, but I’ll tell you when I’m done.*

Unable to feel those energies anymore but encouraged by her host’s reaction, Betsy deconstructed more of herself. The diamond surrounding her moved in, occupying the space her mental image formerly held. Soon, her entire being became a nebulus cloud, and with an imagined deep breath, Betsy spread her consciousness into her host.

Between the layers of diamonds lay tiny corridors snaking through Emma’s mind. They led to each facet of her life, her experiences. On her way in, Betsy had viewed all of the White Queen’s memories, but the nature of her psychic knife masked the emotions behind the memories, her interaction restricted to what she described as a fastforward screening of her victims’ life. Now, she felt all of Emma. Felt every joy, every pain, every death of her student, every triumph of her company.

Betsy cried with Emma when the blonde’s family turned against her brother. Betsy cackled with Emma when the blonde held the world by its throat when she was the Hellfire Club’s White Queen. For lack of better terminology, Betsy was Emma.

The reverse was also true.

With a detached eye, Emma saw Betsy’s hurt at the hands of Belasco. Emma saw Betsy’s dying moments in Hank’s arms. Emma saw Betsy’s happy family at Braddock manor. Emma saw Betsy’s first lover, Tom, being murdered. Emma saw Betsy’s joy at taking over the Captain Britain mantle.

The blonde found all the scenes intriguing, but a small part of her dreaded her emotional response when she’d eventually have to shift back to her flesh and blood body. After all, Emma had seen one case of total psychic integration before, and the results... well, they just weren’t good.

Trepidation aside, she felt confident. Free even. Like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She basked in the extra presence, which as the seconds wore on, didn’t seem to be a second presence anymore.

Funny. Her diamond form precluded her from emotions, but here she was now, feeling. All of it... so amazing to have suddenly lived two lives, to suddenly know so much more, to be so much more powerful than she was.

Telepathy flooded her. Telepathy wrapped her in its comforting and familiar arms. Telepathy formerly closed to... Betsy? Or was it Emma? No matter. The warm, soothing hum of other minds buzzed again. The imposing barriers protecting her erected themselves through her diamond laced mindscape. She heard Brian’s faraway thoughts.

She heard the Shadow King’s curses from inside his prison.

*Damn you, mutant!* the formless thing yelled. He stretched and warped and wrangled, but he couldn’t break free. For every act of struggle, he grew weaker, his mental manifestion losing cohesion.

*You hurt me,* said Betsy and Emma, their voices separate but spoken together. *There is no mercy for you.*

Mental attacks would only strengthen him. He had no physical form. Unfortunately for him, he was in her mind and without a foothold, let alone an advantage.

She drained energy from him. This wasn’t a siphoning or borrowing but rather a malicious, forceful theft of energy, ripping it from him chunks at a time. The Shadow King existed as pure psychic form, and for the first time in his existence, he’d been trapped with no way to recharge. His ferocious yells degenerated into pitiful cries for help, and then oddly enough, into pleas for mercy.

As his body shrunk, his diamond prison shrunk with him, crushing him, surrounding him, reminding him of his impending doom.

The voice, now a single voice blended with Emma’s sultry enunciation and Betsy’s British accent, sounded from all corners: *I’ve robbed you of you. Now, I will destroy your awareness and your consciousness. Then, I will use your energies--your body--to make me strong. Die, you incidious piece of shit, and don’t come back.*

Silence. The Shadow King disappeared, his energy gone, consumed by Betsy and Emma. What remained of him was a wealth of unidentifiable power thundering through her mind, and she was happy. Geniuely happy.

Revenge. Power. Knowledge. Excitement. Victory. All in a day’s work, but even the best days had to end.

The diamond latice shifted, returning to its former state--a darkened no-place with one spotlight. Underneath the spotlight, a mixture of Betsy and Emma stood. Long blonde hair framed Asian eyes. Psylocke’s X-Men outfit remained, only, it was white. A white caped draped over her shoulders.

Suddenly, she blurred. Two hazy forms replaced one. The pair became clearer, sharper, until coming into focus.

Betsy collapsed. Emma stumbled but remained standing. Both clutched their heads in pain and exhaustion.

Without preamble, the mindlink fizzled, returning the two to their physical bodies. Emma’s eyes flashed open in shock, the gamut of emotions her diamond form phased out now hammering against her. She couldn’t breathe or think. Unable to handle the mental overload, Emma screamed.

Betsy fainted face first into the swamp.

*****************

Kitty blinked. Ok, so maybe she wasn’t dead.

Amanda’s face popped out from the edge of Kitty’s hazy vision. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Kitty groaned. “How am I suppose to be feeling?”

Amanda disappeared for a second. “Hey everyone, she’s awake!” She reappeared, this time wearing a grin. “The Doc patched you up himself, so you’ll be up and around in no time.”

One question ran through Kitty’s mind. “What about Illyana?”

The grin faltered. “Not so good,” Amanda admitted, running a hand through her hair. “Stephen undid Belasco’s magic just before she got a chance to hurt you even more, but her body’s falling apart because she wants to go back to her afterlife. She also wants to talk to you though. When you feel up to it...”

Of course she felt up to it. Illyana needed her and Kitty was there. Her presence might not have been enough, but damn it, she was there. She’d always be there.

Wobbling to her feet, the brunette steadied herself on the... bed? “Where are we?”

“My home,” Amanda replied, offering her arm for support. “Don’t worry. We’re safe here.”

Mystical baubles lined the green marble walls. Torches lit every corner of the room. Scents of all sorts wafted through the air. Everything looked either mysteriously archaic or tastefully medival. In fewer words, the place looked like it belonged to a magician.

The bedroom opened up into a large, ornate space. Stone carvings, strange statues, ancient tomes, and various blades lent it a hallowed aura. Amanda must’ve did her more complex spells here. Apparently, the room also doubled as a nice reception area. Meggan, Brian, the Black Knight, and Doctor Strange hovered around Illyana, who lay on a stone table. Meanwhile, across the way, Emma--arms crossed, eyes glowering--stood by Betsy’s body which occupied another slab of rock.

Whatever pissed Emma off could wait, Kitty decided.

“Illyana,” she called out, forcing a smile to her face.

Said woman turned her head to the voice, sighing in relief. The dark circles around her eyes made them look like they’d sunken into her skull. Pale lips strained with effort to produce some sort of positive expression, but they failed. Without her demonic features, Illyana looked like a frailed, frightened girl, too small to support the armor she still wore.

Kitty broke away from Amanda and stumbled the last few feet to Illyana on her own. She took the blonde’s hand and squeezed it, reaffirming her friend’s existence to herself. Everyone else took a cue, stepping back and giving the two women a little privacy. Kitty nodded in thanks to the group as they went about with meaningless tasks and idle chit-chat.

“I’m so sorry, Kitty,” whispered Illyana.

“Don’t say that. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I do. I’m sorry for hurting you and-”

“No, Belasco made you do it. I know you’d never hurt me.”

The blonde closed her eyes. “But I’m going to hurt you again.”

“How?” asked Kitty, shocked. “Why?”

“I don’t want to be here. Piotr was with me. My parents were with me. I was happy, and Belasco took me away from them again. He gave me this body and... and... it hurts to be here because I’m not happy anymore.”

She tightened her hold on Kitty’s hand. “I’m leaving,” she sighed. “And I’m sorry because I know seeing me like this again is going to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kitty, tears running down her cheek, “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“You don’t have be strong all the time, Kitty. I know how you feel; I feel the same way. Maybe some day, some time in the future...”

The words trailed off. Doctor Strange moved to Kitty’s side, his voice comforting as he spoke.

“One of the hardest things in life is letting go. Illyana just wants to make sure you can accept that before she passes on. While we may fear death, it is not the end. You two will meet again, and hopefully, next time will be on better terms.”

What could anyone say to that? There was nothing in the world Kitty would begrudge Illyana of, but simply letting go felt like such an empty gesture. Nonetheless, Illyana wanted Kitty’s acceptance of her death. Her slightly pleading, laboring tone hinted their friendship was what made Illyana hang on for as long as she had.

“Live,” Illyana mouthed quietly, “Piotr and I... we see you all the time and you don’t live...”

She coughed, air rushing out of her lungs and failing to come back despite her best efforts. Strange chanted in Latin as an eerie purple light passed from him to Illyana. The woman’s strained face relaxed, her coughing eased, and the crushing grip on Kitty’s hand loosened. Serenity descended upon her, and the smile which earlier couldn’t form blossomed. The pain disappeared.

Finally, her eyes glazed over, open and unseeing.

Kitty slumped. She let go of Illyana’s cooling hand. Meggan tried to offer some condolences, but the brunette stopped her.

“Thank you,” she said, backing away from Illyana’s body. “But I... I just need a little space. I’ll be out for a few minutes.”

Without waiting for responses, she phased through the walls, off to another part of the stronghold. Distraught over her friend’s reaction, Meggan called after Kitty, even going so far as to chase her. Amanda halted the blonde with a shake of her head.

“Let her go. I can watch her from anywhere in Limbo, so she’ll be safe.”

“But Kitty is our friend and she needs us!”

Although he hated to contradict his wife, Brian concurred with Amanda. “Kitty’s also a private person, luv. She’ll come to us when she’s ready.”

Emma’s bitter words sliced through the soothing, sensitive atmosphere. “Interesting how you satisfied the kitty cat with half truths.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Brian, puzzled.

Unimpressed, the White Queen leveled her most intimidating glare at each person present. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Braddock. I’ve read the files on Excalibur--you and your lovely wife have the ability to save Illyana. Where are the spells? The contacts? One doesn’t rise to your station of power without some advantages and friends. Speaking of friends, Doctor Strange himself could’ve easily preserved Illyana’s life. Xavier’s dossier of his sometime astral chess buddy has enough proof of that.” Her voice lowered, accusing. “Why hold back?”

The Black Knight rose to the occasion, stepping in front of his friends to defend them. “We did all we could,” he barked. “Magic isn’t simple and Belasco isn’t a simple villain! How dare you accuse us of leaving one of our own to die?!”

“Dane,” Doctor Strange said as he pulled the man back. “Ms. Frost has a good point. Her concern is certainly grounded in fact, and as such, we must address them as best we can.” He turned back to Emma, smiling apologetically. “Dane is a very passionate man and doesn’t fully measure all of his words. I am sorry for his outburst.”

“The grown man has a mouth of his own. Unless mommy is still changing his diapers, let him apologize for himself.”

The Black Knight almost lunged at Emma, but reason--along with Brian’s steady grip--reined him in. He settled down and resorted to scoffing. If Emma wasn’t so keyed up, she’d laugh at his childish behavior.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” she said, tapping her foot.

“Simply put,” explained Doctor Strange, “she didn’t want to live anymore. Yes, we could have helped her, prevented her from dying, but she didn’t want that. Illyana is already dead and passed on to her afterlife where she is happy. It was her choice to live on or return to her blissful state: she chose the latter.”

“I didn’t hear anyone pointing that out to her when she woke up. I didn’t hear anyone saying ‘We can help you.’ The poor girl probably didn’t even know she could be saved, and you didn’t feel it necessary to tell her otherwise. In that situation, her choosing death was not choice but rather the only option revealed to her.”

Brian wedged himself into the debate to prevent it from escalating. “No need to get chippy now. Kitty might’ve been out like a light, but you were there, Emma. Illyana only wanted to go back and she made no mystery of it.”

“I didn’t hear a word of encouragement for her to stay,” Emma pointed out. “I don’t have to be an empath to know all of you are holding something back.”

“We’ve done this plenty of times,” said Brian, “After all, Belasco did get his legion this way. Every single one of those spirits Belasco corrupted wanted to return to their afterlives after we freed them. Their place is not with the living anymore, and they know it.”

“And the spirits must return to their rightful places,” added Dane. “Their absence shifted many things in the realms outside of earth, and we are just putting it right.”

Emma frowned. “So the ugly truth comes out. Not only is letting these people die again humane, but it’s also a convinent solution to whatever rocked your Otherworld boat.”

Instead of accepting the bait, Brian calmed himself, putting his arms at his sides in a most unthreatening way. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, you won’t get it. Tell me, why are you saying these things?”

“Your sister doesn’t want to go back, Mr. Braddock; she desperately wants to live. Her afterlife consisted of seeing Bishop then being kidnapped by Belasco. Now, she’s unconscious and probably won’t wake up for a while, so in her best interests, I want to know if you’re going to treat her like you did Illyana.”

“How do you know this?! You don’t know anything!” declared the Black Knight.

“Dane!” Meggan chided. “Hush! You’re awfully headstrong today.”

Fixing her icy stare at Dane, Emma said, “I know more than about her than you ever will. Our minds melded together during the fight with the Shadow King. So before you go around twirling your attitude around me again, check that mouth of yours or you might find yourself on the painful end of your little toothpick.”

“Ladies, gentlemen,” interrupted Doctor Strange, “I believe our conflict is easily resolved. Ms. Frost does not approve of our methods. Brian and Meggan, I don’t think you want to leave Betsy’s side at the moment. So, I propose this compromise...”

*****************

“... I hope you don’t mind the arrangement, Charles.”

Professor Xavier chuckled at the astral projection of Doctor Strange. “Of course not, Stephen. My gratitude for returning Elisabeth to us. Rest assured that we’ll do everything in our power to make her recovery as swift and comfortable as possible. Oh, and when did you say Brian and Meggan would be here?”

“Tomorrow at the latest. They have some loose ends to tie up here first.”

“Very good. We’ll be ready for them.”

“Till next time, Charles. Perhaps we can finish that chess match then.”

“Indeed.”

Strange disappeared leaving the Professor in his office by himself. With a great sigh, he massaged the bridge of his nose. Just one crisis after the next, wasn’t it? The day began with Sinister and his Marauders attacking Scott and Jean while they enjoyed a breakfast off the school grounds. It ended with Sage, Gambit, and Logan disintegrating half the Marauders, Illyana demolishing the mansion gates, Sinister almost reducing the Blackbird to a scrap pile via a bomb (which Bishop alertly disposed of), and Elisabeth Braddock coming back from the dead.

Add to that Hank and Kitty were here, Emma Frost was suddenly more touchy than usual, the rulers of the Otherworld were showing up soon, and well, the man know as Charles Xavier needed a vacation. Bad. His poor heart couldn’t take much more excitement.

Then his phone rang.

“Xavier speaking.”

From the other end of the line came, “Everything is set, old friend. Are you ready?”

“Soon. There’s been a number of new developments here...”

“Come to Genosha when you have it sorted out. You know the place.”

“I do. Be careful yourself. I have a bad premonition about this.”

“Charles, since when has the future been kind?”

The line went dead.

“Great,” Xavier sighed.

Hoping to visit Psylocke, he made for the door. Just before he got out, he backed up to the mini-bar, grabbed a whiskey flask from the sea of drinks, and took a slight swing of it.

“Sean was right. It does take the edge off.”

He tucked it in his shirt pocket and headed to the elevators. The party, so to speak, was in full tilt by the time he got down there. Thanks to a slight mind trick, nobody noticed the Professor when he wheeled himself in. From two floors up, he already heard Rogue’s booming voice and wanted to know the cause without any sugar coating.

Though it pained him to think, even his most adult students could act like children when they put their minds to it.

“... and how do ya know whether ‘not she’s out to hurt us?” Rogue yelled. “Plenty o’ people have come to us for help and we’ve never turn anyone away without at least hearing their story! Ah dunno ‘bout anyone else, but if there’s a chance that it’s her, we can’t afford to just throw her out! We owe it to Betsy!”

“Damn it,” said Bobby Drake, slamming his fist onto a table. “Rogue, you haven’t been here since the beginning. You haven’t seen all the crap that gets thrown at this mansion. If we’d fallen for this routine like you are now, we would’ve been dead by Sinister’s or Mystique’s hands long ago! Get rid of her and say goodbye to another potential headache. Scott, Jean, back me up on this one. We’re stretched thin as it is! We can’t afford to have anyone baby-sit her!”

Gambit, none too happy with the conversation’s direction, placed himself between Rogue and Bobby. “Just went too far, mon ami. We’d been here long ‘nough to see a’plenty. Wha ‘bout Bishop? Or Sage? Or Frost? Or Roguey? Or me? Half da people in dis room wouldn’t be here if you’d act da way you talk. De X-Men’s always been ‘bout helpin’ mutants an’ we do a fine job because we ain’t picky ‘bout who gets our help. And dis is Betsy too. Ain’t like you don’t know da woman.”

“Cajun’s right,” Wolverine grunted. “Be a real shame if that really was Betts in there and we’d threw the book at her.”

“Everyone,” Scott boomed, silencing the room, “Speculation will get us nowhere. Xorn, how are Hank and Betsy?”

The masked man glanced at the computer monitor. “Dr. McCoy should be coming to at any time. Ms. Braddock is still an anomaly. I’ve never seen someone with her physiology. She has no vital signs, but yet, her body moves and occasionally speaks, apparently like one caught in a fitful slumber. I’ve injected her with some sedatives to prevent any violent movements or other unfortunate acts.”

“Jean? Any insight on Betsy?”

“It’s her,” the redhead quietly answered. Her eyes met Charles’ and he nodded. Given she was the only person in the room he couldn’t shield himself from, he felt it appropriate for Jean to end his eavesdropping session.

“Professor,” Jean greeted.

A circle of startled X-Men made room around him. “On my way down, I heard some debate about our guest,” he began. “I believe we have more than enough manpower to sufficiently neutralize her should the need arise. Seeing as she is one of our own, the matter becomes how we can help Elisabeth through her trying times, not whether or not we will help.”

Bobby had the decency to at least look apologetic. Scott cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“It’s settled then. We’ll continue monitoring Betsy, but someone will be down here at all times in case she wakes up. I’m looking for volunteers, each doing a four hour shift. Any takers for the first rotation?”

“Me.”

Storm, quiet until now, stepped to the forefront. “I can also organize the rest of the schedule while I’m here.”

The meeting disband afterwards. Many stayed and milled about to check on their old friends and volunteer their time. Some, like Bobby, made themselves scarce. Jean nabbed her husband by the arm and gently pulled him to the Professor.

“We need to talk in private,” she said to the two men.

“Why?” asked a confused Scott. “Is something wrong with Betsy?”

“No... it’s... difficult to explain.”

*****************

Logan climbed onto the small, dusty balcony. Some of Storm’s many plants made their home here (a temporary arrangement, of course), but for the most part, this outcropping qualified as barren. It used to be connected to a guestroom, but after one of the mansion’s frequent destructions, the construction team sealed it off, perhaps in an attempt to do less work. The difficult access was exactly why it was one of Logan’s favorite thinking locales. Only Storm, Warren, and Rogue knew he frequented this place, and the three respected his privacy.

Tonight though, he didn’t come to think. He came because he followed a scent. The subject of his search, Kitty Pryde, had her back turned to him, but before he could get a word off, she spoke.

“Peter used to come up here, you know.”

So much for this being a private spot.

“Hmph,” grunted Logan as he walked to Kitty’s side. “How’d he do it?”

“Took the stairs up to the roof and hopped down.”

Logan glanced at the distance from roof to balcony--ten foot drop. Peter was a generous six something, so hopping down wasn’t an issue. Now, leaving on the other hand--twenty foot drop from here to ground. Not deadly, but still...

“How’d he get off the balcony?”

Kitty couldn’t repress a giggle. “He turned into his steel form and jumped.”

“Must’ve made a big boom.”

“Scared the living daylights out of me the first time,” she laughed at the fond memory. “My room was just downstairs, and one night, I heard this huge thud outside my window. I thought the mansion was under attack! So I phased outside in my pajamas, and low and behold, there was Peter brushing some grass off himself. My heart never raced so fast!”

As Kitty’s laughter petered off, they cast their eyes to the sky and watched the stars together.

Logan lit a cigar. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

The tradition started long ago when Kitty was a raw, bumbling recruit in the X-Men. For all of Logan’s gruff exterior, he had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies. He took Kitty under his wing, and his first lesson was teaching her to be quiet. The purpose wasn’t to just shut her up, as Kitty often complained about, but it was also an exercise in observation. One could defeat frayed thoughts and tumbling emotions with enough patience, knowledge, and solitude. In those days, exuberance and naiveté were Kitty’s worst enemies.

Now, the enemies were of a darker, sadder nature.

This companionable silence used to greatly comfort Kitty, and strange enough, Logan didn’t mind her presence when he wanted to be alone. Time and time again Kitty sought out Logan to have a few of these moments. Today, the roles got reversed.

“Heard you saw Illyana,” he said between puffs.

The brunette dropped her head down and sighed. “I saw her die again, Logan.”

“Take it from me, watchin’ others go the second time ‘round doesn’t make it easier.”

“But I don’t want any more of this!” she yelled to the night sky. “I don’t want to see any more of my friends die!”

Instead of being sympathetic, Logan took another deep drag of his cigar. “People die, darlin’. You could be a normal girl with a normal life, but that won’t change the fact that people die. Livin’s the greatest health hazard. Sooner or later, normal or not, you’re gonna be buryin’ the ones you love.”

Kitty glared at her friend. “Then how do you do this, Logan? You’ve been fighting for Charles’ dream long before me, and right now, I just want to lay down and die. You... you’re always here, year after year, death after death...”

“I ain’t fightin’ for Chuck’s dream,” replied Logan. “I’m fightin’ for mine. It don’t make life any easier, but at least I know why I go on. Every one of those people gone--Mariko, Peter, Moria--makes me wanna stop their fate from fallin’ onto anyone else. So, I get up every day, put on my boots, n’ do what I need to do.”

“Always fighting the good fight.”

“No,” he interrupted, tapping the ash off the tip of his cigar, “Fightin’ my fight, doin’ what I’m good at. If it’s one thing I know, the world’ll never leave well-enough alone. I’ve tried leaving it all behind, but something somewhere always comes back to bite my ass.”

“Sounds a bit like Magneto’s broken record,” whispered Kitty.

For the first time, Logan looked into Kitty’s eyes. “Man’s ideas aren’t all wrong,” he admitted, “He just has a flamin’ funny way o’ makin’ them happen. Hate to sound cliche, darlin’, but nothing’s free. Every happy moment has a sad story behind it. Can’t hide under a rock n’ expect the best to come to you.”

“Are you calling me a coward for quitting the X-Men?”

“No. You’re one of the bravest people I know, Pryde. Takes real courage to walk a mile in your shoes and not end up lookin’ like something outta a meat grinder. You’re grievin’ for the dead and worryin’ for the live. Last I checked, that’s normal. I’m just answering your question ‘bout how I do this day in and day out.” He paused, then grumbled, “Wouldn’t mind hearin’ a few ideas on makin’ the pain go away cuz I got no answers for that myself.”

Kitty let a few tears escape while Logan put out his cigar and threw the butt off the balcony. In the flash of an eye, she had Wolverine in a desperate, crushing hug, sobs stored from earlier in the day pouring out of her. He returned the embrace, patting the back of her head soothingly. He’d never admit it, but Logan not only had a soft spot for wide-eyed, hopeful rookies, he also had one for crying women.

“Let it out, Kitty,” he encouraged. “Hurt like yours does no good bein’ bottled up.”

“I miss them,” she cried. “I miss them so much...”

*****************

Emma couldn’t sleep. The second Magik teleported them back into the mansion (and incidentally into the group of returning X-Men), she feigned exhaustion, snapped at everyone who wanted to talk to her, and rushed to her room for sleep. Fatigue wasn’t much a factor in her escape--the real reason was confusion. For extend periods of time on Limbo, she found herself thinking like Betsy, even remembering Betsy’s memories.

Case in point: on the way up to her room, Emma almost took a wrong turn toward Psylocke’s old room. Only by the slimmest of margins did she steer herself back on course. Oh, and even when away in another dimension, Emma swore she felt Brian’s consciousness. More disturbing was the urge to hug the man and comfort him, telling him she was fine and he didn’t need to worry.

That freaked Emma out. Other convoluted snippets added to the freak out factor.

Emma distinctly remembered never sniffing the scent of flesh smoldering with hellfire, but yet she knew the gut-wrenching odor. Smelled remarkably like one of Remy LeBeau’s inedible, Cajun kitchen creations, only less spicy. What about the horror of having the Shadow King live in your head? His constant hammering against his mental prison, his incessant yammering about revenge, and the fear of relaxing for just a split second because he could take advantage of any weakness--Emma recalled it like Jubilee’s second semester grades (which were quite pitiful). And while Emma suffered many wounds in her interesting life, none stacked up to feeling a sword run through her gut, puncturing stomach and spine, filling her insides with blood, then choking as said blood rush up her esophagus.

Honestly, if she ever met Vargas, she’d put the bastard’s brain through a blender.

Then there were her own rebellious memories, those she spent much of her young adult life repressing, boxing neatly, then burying under the largest mound of overwhelming emotions she could find. All of them came back like she’d only run away from home yesterday. Her father’s stinging slap burned her cheek. Her dear mother’s numbed, glazed over eyes watched her but never saw her thanks to all the drugs she took. The dirty dishes she washed, the men who tried to take advantage of her, and the people like Astrid Bloom and Ian Kendall who deadened her heart--memories she’d taken great pains to never see again, but here they were, larger than life and absolutely ruthless.

She needed to do something about this. What though? What to do, what to do...

Crying felt like the most natural response, but Emma Grace Frost did not cry. Screaming? No, she’d done enough of that for one day. Curling into a fetal position was harder than it looked, especially when she’d gotten worked over by Betsy. Laughing hysterically never cured anything, and in Emma’s experience, never made her feel any better. Meditation? Please, what she wanted was a dulling of the pain, not a full introspection.

Emma peeled herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom. Warm water, tiny bubbles, absolute privacy--perfect to soothe the body and refresh the mind. Her entirely too expensive and now ruined outfit got thrown into a corner while she ran the water. Minutes later, she submerged herself into a fragrant and luxurious tub. She watched the water vapor dance, curling and rising until the wisps disappeared. Her muscles relaxed, her eyes grew heavy, and...

Damn it. She still sensed Brian Braddock. She still remembered Adrienne’s betrayal of their sweet brother, Christian, and his near suicide. She still felt Matsu’o’s caresses and Spiral’s manipulation. Damn it all to hell. Mood soured, Emma toweled herself off, threw on her silk robe, and slipped out her door.

2:30 AM at the mansion. A little telepathy told her everyone slept except for Bobby Drake and Bishop. The former sprawled himself out on the couch and watched 80’s action movies while the latter busied himself cleaning his guns in the... the... medlab? Yes, and he had Betsy under guard thanks to a royal decree by Scott “Holier Than Thou” Summers.

Bishop’s presence annoyed her. Was that how they treated their own? Like a prisoner? No matter--he wouldn’t be a factor. With startling ease, she wormed into his mind and put him to sleep, making him collapse onto his impromptu workbench. No one noticed and no alarms sounded. She used the stairs, and in no time, stood over Betsy.

Someone had unplugged the heart monitor. So much advanced technology and none of it was hooked up to Betsy. Only the IV dripped away. One brief touch on the woman’s wrist revealed no pulse. A minute’s time showed no breathing.

But Emma knew Betsy lived. The psychic bond between them still existed, and occasionally, flashes of disturbing dreams would hit Emma. They were almost worse than the unwanted memories.

Under this assault of images and emotions, Emma made her decision.

She admired Betsy for her determination. All too often she’d seen prideful people break, but Elisabeth Braddock had a rare stubbornness possessed by few--Emma considered herself one of those few. Yet, underneath the sure stride and icy blood lurked a girl who hadn’t found her place in the world, who despite being full-grown had serious questions about her identity. No one understood her problems, no one could help her with herself, and even when surrounded by others, she was alone. Burned too many times to count, she forged on ahead, sure that whatever the future held could only be an improvement over the present, only the future held new lows. Emma knew the feeling well, she herself a repeated victim of this cycle. With their combined experiences, the disappointment, anger, and helplessness multiplied, and she knew Betsy didn’t need the extra pain.

Gracefully, Emma touched Betsy’s cheek. She considered the woman beautiful, inside and out, and Emma hated spoiling beauty. Emma’s memories, especially her time in the Hellfire Club, weren’t a bowl of cherries, and Emma wished none of those thoughts on anyone else, least of all Betsy. The woman had a tough road ahead of her, and she needed all her strength if she wanted to come out intact.

People accused Emma of many things, but none ever accused the White Queen of not cleaning up after herself. She made a mess in Betsy’s mind, and she would put this right.

Her fingers inched up, brushing from Betsy’s cheek to her temple. She breathed in deeply and prepared herself to-

Suddenly, Betsy’s hand shot out and grabbed Emma’s wrist. Their punch-drunk eyes met, sparkling in the eerie, computer monitor glow of the medlab.

“You were going to mind wipe me.”

No accusation. No condescension. Just a statement of fact.

“Yes.”

No remorse. No guilt. Just Emma.

Betsy sat up but didn’t let go of the wrist. Nose to nose with the blonde, she asked, “What’s the point?”

“It’s too much,” Emma quietly said, “We have enough problems ourselves. Forgetting everything would be easiest on us.”

“What about you?”

“I’d mind wipe myself after I finished with you.”

Unlike plenty of foolhardy X-Men, Emma didn’t view retreat as cowardice. If you didn’t have to deal with it any more, Emma considered the problem solved. Sometimes, the best solution to a problem was running away and never letting it find you again.

Wouldn’t retreat working swimmingly in this situation? Tuck all those nasty memories away, rip apart the remnants of the psychic integration, sweep the tight little package under the proverbial rug, and go on with life. No mess, no fuss.

“You’re afraid,” said Betsy, leaning infinitesimally closer, “You don’t like others seeing you for anything less than the unapproachable, untouchable White Queen.”

The words stunned Emma. Out of the goodness of her heart, she went to calm Betsy’s mind. Have no doubts about it, Betsy needed solace--whatever Emma felt reflected itself on Betsy. Her fitful unconsciousness proved the vastness of her pain.

As she yanked her wrist away, Emma’s eyes narrowed. “I come here to help you and this is the thanks I get?”

Unfazed, Betsy stood and forced Emma to back away. “You have my thanks, but you can’t say you’re only doing this to make our lives easier. Our minds fused, Emma. I know you like I know myself. There’s a part of you that’s furious because I don’t see the invincible Emma Grace Frost. It’s the same part that bristles when you can’t break through another telepath’s shields.”

“This isn’t about me...”

“Yes it is. I don’t think any less of you because of what I’ve seen in your mind. In fact, I think you’re one of the strongest, most loving, most kind-hearted individuals. There’s few people who can take the losses you have and still find the will to devote themselves to others, but here you are, teaching at the school of a former enemy so you can better the lives of children. You’re not doing this to prove your daddy wrong or to show Xavier how to really teach mutants. You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, and you should be proud of that.”

It didn’t happen often, but Emma flinched away from another’s gaze. Fine, so a tiny part of her felt exposed and vulnerable. The more ruthless side of her feared Betsy would do no good with her knowledge. No matter though, she could deal with rejection, manipulation, disgust, and threats; actually, she looked forward to a refreshing “no-I’m-right-and-I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good” fight with Betsy.

However, Emma couldn’t deal with Betsy’s acceptance. Compassion took the wind out of her sails. She came to be a martyr, one who would take someone else’s pain and make it her own. She dealt from a position of power, of prestige. Why? Because Emma hated being vulnerable to anybody. The White Queen never owed anyone anything. Now, Betsy turned the tables. Instead of the one giving comfort, Emma receive it.

Betsy cupped Emma’s chin and turned the blonde’s head so they faced each other again. “You’ve seen what I’ve been through. You understand, and we both know finding someone who understands is the hardest thing to do. Why not take advantage of the situation? After all, misery loves company.”

Never one to turn down comfort, Emma found Betsy’s mouth with her own. The blonde pressed her body closer to her counterpart’s, backing her down onto the bed. For Betsy, surprise grew into panic, and she pushed the woman away, her lush, pouty lips and nimble tongue be damned. That had the unfortunate consequence of tipping the IV over (thereby yanking it out of Betsy’s arm) and sending it into nearby equipment, accompanied, of course, by a large crash.

Bishop shifted in his seat and kept snoring.

Meanwhile, Emma had on her largest, most pretentious smirk. “You enjoyed it.”

Betsy suppressed the urge to exclaim “What was that?!” She knew what “that” was: Emma hated being out of control, and “that” was her bid to tilt the conversation back in her favor. Maybe Betsy sounded and acted too intimately. Calling Emma loving? What about the “taking advantage of the situation” spiel? Putting her hands all over the blonde? Granted she’d overstepped some boundaries, but the kiss was uncalled for.

Despite knowing what Emma intended to do, Betsy still fell for it. She failed to clamp down on her wide-eyed expression, and now, Emma sashayed and pranced, once again assuming her White Queen persona to hide her insecurities. That explained why Emma had her left hand roaming around on her thighs, and-

Betsy gasped, a wave of sexual pleasure walloping her.

What in the Lord’s name was she doing with that other hand?!

Dipping her head down for another kiss, Emma’s shit-eating grin faltered for just a second. She whispered in a tender, truly loving voice, “I’m sorry,” and pressed her lips against Betsy’s.

If Bishop was awake, he would’ve seen Emma Frost and Elisabeth Braddock engaged in one of the most passionate exchanges he’d ever witnessed, and that included all the adult videos Bobby Drake made him sit through after he admitted not knowing what “Skinemax” was. If another telepath was present, he or she would’ve seen an explosion of psychic energies consistent with a mind wipe in progress.

However, neither telepath nor Bishop saw anything. Too bad for them... and Betsy.

Thoughts dimmed. Someone was switching off the lights in her head. Memories so stark seconds ago became unidentified impulses. Despite the violation, Betsy felt good, satisfied even. While she cut memories away, Emma stimulated the pleasure regions of the brain. The more she stayed in Betsy’s mind, the more Betsy wanted her to remain.

“NO!”

Surprisingly, Betsy resisted Emma. The blonde found herself rudely closed off from Psylocke’s mind and returned to her physical body, which at the moment draped itself over Betsy and dutifully kissed away. Emma got up.

“How could you?” Betsy snarled, rolling off the bed. “You had no right.”

The White Queen folded her arms. “You have the right to my memories? Don’t forget, Elisabeth, I helped you with the Shadow King, and it’s because of my assistance that you have my memories: I didn’t willingly give them to you. All I want is my privacy back.”

“So you admit it. You’re doing this for yourself, not to be benevolent.”

“What if I am? What if I don’t like sharing or opening up to others?”

“Then I’d say that’s why you’re never happy. You like to keep everything to yourself, including your sadness, and it only gets worse.” Betsy lowered her voice, “You still see Christian hanging himself, don’t you? What about the debauchery at the Hellfire Club? Any of that go away?”

No more nice White Queen. She lashed at Betsy with a fearsome psi-blast, but this time, Betsy prepared herself, protecting her mind against the blow. Their astral projections rose from their bodies, clad in their respective uniforms and ready for battle.

A spear of mental energy flew past Betsy, but it was only a diversion for Emma to get in close. The blonde hoped to end the fight quickly, but she underestimated how slippery Psylocke was and how painful her psychic knife could be. An unexpected slash reminded Emma, and she responded by reversing the flow of energy, overloading her opponent. Psylocke’s gasp gave Emma all the confidence she needed, and she pressed her advantage by establishing a foothold in the other’s mind. With masterful deftness, Betsy did the same, entering Emma’s consciousness through her connection, and like so, they found themselves in a standoff.

Betsy was in Emma and Emma was in Betsy.

*You knew what I wanted to do,* Emma dryly noted.

*I could say the same about you.*

Years later, our two heroines would spend much time reminiscing about what happened after they got into each other’s minds. They’d call themselves pathetic, funny, and generally screwed up in the head. They’d receive their fair share of jabs from friends and family alike. Many would press Bishop for the gory details, but he swore he didn’t see anything.

But the past was always more amusing than the present. What would be funny years later was drop-dead serious now, and this was as drop-dead, very-not-funny serious as anyone could get.

True to her nature, Emma fired the first proverbial shot, shredding Betsy’s stolen memories of Generation X. Proving she could give as good as she got, Betsy returned the favor by dismantling the White Queen’s bond with Brian Braddock. Next went the childhood moments, something both women didn’t feel comfortable with sharing and thus vigorously attacked. Afterward, Emma dove after her embarrassing adolescent memories while Betsy annihilated her formative time with the Hand. Failed relationships went flying out the door, accompanied by private conversations, powerful business deals, and shady agreements.

Now, mind wiping usually wasn’t painful. After all, the goal was to make a subject forget about a certain incident and inducing a splitting headache wasn’t conducive to subtlety. Telepaths took great care in leaving no traces of memory tampering behind, elevating this activity to something of an art form. Ones like Emma certainly prided themselves in doing the cleanest job possible.

Neither telepath occupied themselves with doing a clean job. Instead of relying on the “mental scalpel,” they used the brutal “mental sledgehammer.” Result? Pain. Unadulterated, eye crossing, nose bleeding, brain pulsing, migraine-the-size-of-Siberia pain.

The mind link connecting the two severed, both unable to maintain their attacks on the others’ psyche. Of course, they weren’t exactly “quiet” in the telepathic sense either, what with throwing incredible psychic energies about like dodge balls. Their exchange had the effect of a rock concert next to a library, and unless Charles Xavier was in a coma, he would be carting himself into the medlab in about the next thirty seconds. Fortunately, Bishop slept like a baby...

Until Betsy, hanging on the bed for support, started chuckling.

Emma squinted and bit out between puffs of breath, “What’s so funny?”

The chuckles grew into laughter. “I... I just, I mean.... wow. We are two stubborn people, aren’t we?”

Did seem funny, didn’t it? Emma was sure she arrived with good intentions, but Betsy pushed all her wrong buttons. The kinship earlier dissipated during the fight only to now reassert itself when they became too tired to continue hating the other. What struck Emma the most was that, for being so hurt, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so pissed off. She suspected the same with Betsy.

Fucking mind wiping...

Emma’s scowl wavered as she absorbed the thoughts Betsy haphazardly threw her way.

*Come down to be an angel of mercy. Trying to do the “right thing.” Want to help ease someone else’s suffering. Make them forget. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Instead of thanks, there’s a fight about who has a right to know what about a person. Think you understand someone after your minds fuse but they surprise you. Got in a mental bitch fight. Why? I forgot. We’re fucked up, probably could’ve killed each other. I look like I escaped from a mental asylum. You look like you stepped out of one of Bobby’s terrible movies. Oh yeah, and we’re half naked too.*

The blonde looked down at herself and saw bare flesh staring back her. The bathrobe didn’t do anything for covering up and Betsy’s hospital garment started to come loose. Remnants of Emma’s lipstick smeared itself over Betsy’s face while the blonde herself sported a bloody nose from their psychic battle.

Took Emma a few moments to fully grasp the absurdity of their situation.

Did she really kiss Betsy?

What did she do with her right hand?

Was she suffering from brain damage?

Were they actually offering to comfort each other at some point?

Those stolen memories made absolutely no sense now, but at least they weren’t painful anymore. Good or bad?

And what episode of Springer would they show up in?

“You know,” said Betsy, trying desperately to contain herself, “I hope we didn’t wake the house.”

“Too late.”

Emma and Betsy turned in the general direction of the voice, which belonged to Bishop. Beside him stood Tessa (in some strikingly elegant, black silk PJs), Jean (decked out in her husband’s oversized “I brake for redheads” t-shirt), Scott (wearing his glasses and track pants), Bobby (sporting a wrinkled up Aerosmith sweater), Alex (clad in plaid), Lorna (Bathrobe. ‘Nuff said.), Logan (in his traditional flannel getup), Rogue (covered head to toe by sweats) and a staff wielding Remy (who had on a pair of incredibly manly Care Bear boxers).

Everyone seemed at a loss for words. Wasn’t often the X-Men got caught flat footed and nearly flashed by members of their team. They all looked at each other, in particular studying the two women around the bed who couldn’t stop laughing. Wolverine reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar from his thought-to-be never ending cache. As he patted himself down for a light, a certain something caught his eye.

“Nice boxers, Gumbo.”

“Hey, Roguey gave dem to me.”

*****************

“Jesus Christ, Emma, what did you do to yourself?”

“Can it, Scott. Your obvious concern is like a fine misting of drool--disgusting and pointless.”

Most of the team attended to Betsy, corralling her for the Professor and bombarding her with questions, hopeful wishes, and cautious optimism. That left Scott to deal with Emma, and Emma didn’t feel like being dealt with. Despite his best efforts to keep her still, Emma absconded from the medlab and was currently gliding up the stairs at an almost frantic rate. His orders to stop slid off of her; his quickening pace spurred her on; he was thisclose to using his optic blasts to slow her down.

“You don’t have the gall, Summers,” Emma called out.

He tightened his thoughts, refusing to allow her any access.

“Do that a few more minutes and that lump of coal might turn into a diamond.”

ARGH! The woman infuriated him! He’d lived around telepaths for most of his life and none of them were ever this... this... aggravating! She pranced around the school like she owned it. Her aura of superiority never failed to press itself against everyone. When she sat down, she had to have two spaces--one for her and one for her ego!

“Very original. While you’re at it, how about some tired ‘Your Momma’ jokes too?”

He’d survived the Phoenix Force’s fury.

He’d survived battling cosmic evil doers.

He’d survived Apocalypse’s possession.

And yet, here was Emma Frost making him wish he hadn’t survived one of those times.

“Trust me, darling, it’s a talent.”

They ended up inside Emma’s room, though not of the blonde’s own volition. Giving in to her devious thoughts, she slowed down enough for Scott to somewhat catch up, and by then, they were outside her room. She planned to slam the door in the man’s face, but a slight miscalculation--and Scott’s sturdy foot--prevented the door from closing all the way. While he crumbled to the bed, she went to the bathroom to clean up. In a rare show of generosity (or perhaps even guilt), she left that certain door open so they could clearly hear each other.

“You wanted to talk,” Emma said, wiping her face of blood, “Talk.”

The groans got shoved into the back of Scott’s throat. He sat up and said through clenched teeth, “You’re a hazard.”

Emma spared the man a glance before returning to her previous activity.

“You don’t listen to orders,” Scott continued, “Do you even think about others? You could have endangered us tonight, maybe even some students. We have no idea what happened to Psylocke and the threat she could pose. Xorn had her sedated for a reason! That aside, you have an attitude problem that’s starting to grate on me. Contrary to your belief, your callous comments do not contribute to any situation. What compounds all of that is your unwillingness to compromise--it’s always your way or no way. I hate how you stir up our ranks and I despise your past history. The only reason I tolerate you is because you get results, but now I wonder at what cost. You’re inconsiderate and arrogant with a blatant disregard for other people’s mental privacy. You make me sick.”

Putting her towel down, Emma fished around for her mouthwash, gurgled generously when she found it, and checked her teeth in the mirror. No imperfections, but never hurt to make sure. Then, she washed her hands. Slowly. Took care to use extra hand soap too.

To this, Scott noisily shuffled and coughed.

Even without her telepathy, Emma felt Scott’s burning fuse. Was difficult these days to garner a response from him, and as always, she loved a good challenge. Make him squirm, make him fidget, make him pay the price trespassing into her room, make him use that under worked mouth of his. After all, he’d said more right now than he had in the months following his rescue from Apocalypse, and that was comforting.

Emma froze in her tracks. Comforting? Since when did she care about Summer’s welfare? The self-righteous man would be hitchhiking a ride through the galaxy with his ruffian of a father if she had her way. He was Xavier’s lapdog and Xavier already held a place of mild contempt in Emma’s heart. Scott Summers was like... like... the loose bits of cork floating in her thousand dollar bottle of merlot.

Somehow, that distain got replaced with a measure of respect and a pinch of attraction.

Narrowing her eyes, Emma turned her powers on herself, and for the first time, surveyed the damage her battle with Betsy did. The expected gouges lingered, empty spaces where the other’s memories should have been. Some ideas still weren’t quite cleaned up, but nothing too overwhelming or particularly powerful remained. Why the sudden burst of strange emotion then?

“This isn’t like you,” said Scott, “No witty comeback? No scathing remark?”

Must be a residual well of emotions somewhere, Emma mused. The memories might be gone, but the feelings attached to them weren’t.

“Is it because everything I said is right?”

God, maybe she could figure this out. She really hoped she could. For a few minutes, everything seemed to be ok again, like she’d just woken up and had only started grading those final papers.

Scott sighed, his posture slumping. “About some of those things... maybe I got a little out of hand.”

A twang of pity hit Emma, the man’s gesture playing upon her sense of camaraderie she knew she didn’t possess for him. She squashed her reaction and resumed her mental probing. No doubt Betsy’s working relationship with Scott had left its imprint b-

“But you have to admit, you haven’t been exactly a team player, and it’s difficult to account for.”

“Can’t you just shut up?!”

Last thing she needed was his annoying, pushing, deadpanning voice needling her, and somewhere between ditching him and closing the door in his face, the simpleton took it to mean she wanted him to be here. Could he help? No, his presence did absolutely nothing. He couldn’t contribute and he sure as hell wasn’t making life easier. Jean or Charles would’ve been much preferred over Scott, but...

Wait. Now she was trusting Jean or Charles to romp around in her mind?

Emma let out a breath of frustration. At least she still didn’t trust Tessa.

Scott blinked in disbelief. “I can’t even begin to understand you.”

“So don’t,” Emma snapped, “The children were never in harm’s way and I’m fine. There, you have no reason to be here. Leave my room, go tell Charles, and get your doggy biscuit from him.”

“I’m concerned for you!”

“After you finished saying I make you sick? After you thought about blasting the stairs from under me? No thanks. I don’t want your kind of concern. You may have some kind of hold over the others in this institute, but your pissant ways won’t work with me.”

Through her angry tirade, Emma’s eyes drifted all over Scott. His shirtless body grabbed her attention like a car accident--appalling, but too intriguing to not look. That hair, those glasses...

“OUT,” growled Emma, pushing the man off her bed and in the general direction of away. With a forceful slam, she closed the door to her room, finally minus one Scott Summers. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her quivering hands. She wanted to scrub them till they bled a la Lady Macbeth, but a small part of her couldn’t forget the skin-on-skin contact.

Her cell phone, which sat on her nightstand, rang.

Stilling herself, Emma glanced at the number, grimaced, and answered. “Emma Frost.”

“Ms. Frost, this is Dr. Isa Hayes. I uhh... have your results. Henry McCoy is-”

“Isa?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re fired.”

Oh, she’d been itching to say that ever since the Trump made it fashionable.

*****************

Betsy wanted to smile: finally, home. Everything about the mansion filled her with nostalgia and comfort. From the fawning teammates to the Professor’s office, little had changed, and the near stasis comforted her. It made her feel relevant to the world and not some used up has-been passed by while she was gone. The familiarity dulled the terrible times in Belasco’s clutches. Physical stimuli reassured her existence.

Speaking of the Professor’s office, Betsy ran her hand along the mini-bar counter. The wood shined, polished to a reflective shimmer. Deep red dominated the walls, floor, and furniture--velvet curtains, crimson rugs, cherry wood tables, red leather chairs, Persian rugs. Antique lamps gave the room a soothing glow while the more than incredible bookshelves spoke volumes of the owner’s intelligence.

Now, the well stocked bar, on the other hand, sounded like a man’s strangled cry for help.

That gave Betsy a moment’s pause. A sliver of annoyance crept in with the last thought, and images of Charles drinking like a sailor amused her. For most of her life, she respected the man too much to think like that. Yes, he made some incredibly foolish decisions, but by and large, Charles Xavier was a good man who did more for her than many.

“You seem distracted, Elisabeth.”

Shaking her head, Betsy replied, “It’s nothing.”

He sat behind his immaculate desk, the lights surrounding him such a way that made him look devious. Shadows crowded his face while his hands clasped together like a criminal mastermind about to strike a deal. He leaned forward, just enough to seem intimidating and not enough to seem threatening. Even his voice took on a twist of false over-concern.

Then she sensed the telepathic touch. It wasn’t invasive or forceful and it surely wasn’t unexpected. The Professor liked to keep a minor link with all the X-Men in case he needed to summon them or vice versa--in fact, his caution saved her life more than a few times. She accepted it during her tenure here, and now that she was back, she shouldn’t have been so surprised he’d reached out again. The Professor was trying to show acceptance, that nothing had changed and he was here for her.

But she didn’t drop her mental shields. She raised them higher, strengthened them with the Shadow King’s stolen power. Unless he used all his considerable talents, he wouldn’t be able to break through, which oddly relieved her.

Not acknowledging her rejection of his link, Charles shifted in his chair and tried to jumpstart their conversation. “Jean tells me you and Emma might have destroyed Amahl Farouk.”

A safe, calculated statement. He went to a positive, stayed away from being patronizing, distanced himself from misunderstandings by saying Jean told him, and allowed Betsy to expose herself. What a manipulative old man...

Clenching her fists, Betsy willed away the cold, analytical distrust plaguing her.

“We did,” she confirmed. “Emma trapped him and we absorbed his energy.”

His features softened. “Fascinating. How did Emma trap him?”

“He was in her mind when she turned into diamond.”

“And how do you fit in to the picture?”

“I was trapped in there too. We had to merge our minds to overcome Emma’s genetic flaw.”

Charles sucked in a tight breath as he leaned back. “That would explain why Jean sensed aspects of her consciousness in you when Magik brought you back.”

Instead of elaborating, Betsy offered a dismissive, “Yeah, that would, wouldn’t it?”

“Do you understand the complications which go along with this kind of joining?” Charles pressed. “The scattered psyche, the personality changes, the identity crisis--these are things Scott is going through as we speak. I’m sure he could help you with the unwelcome side effects of psychic integration.”

Not long ago, Betsy would’ve been enamored with the prospect and sought out Scott. The attraction she had for him still flickered, and with her deadened emotions following the Crimson Dawn and the Shadow King’s possession, she would’ve loved to rekindle that flame. Jean be damned, she needed to feel--hate, lust, anger, anything.

But the Shadow King was gone. This body... this nature defying, demonic body she inhabited now was never exposed to the Crimson Dawn. The hurt lingered but Betsy felt alive. Those months before her death were terrible, like she walked through existence with a dampener on her soul. She desperately tried to remove the numbness--that was why her comfortable relationship with Warren failed--and couldn’t. Her resurrection made her whole again and she didn’t need Scott any more.

She didn’t need his pity. She didn’t need Charles’ either.

“I can take care of myself,” Betsy bristled, “I have more than enough experience after going through something like this with Kwannon.”

“Well then, if you’re up to it, could you assist Scott?”

That sneaky baldy! He set her up for that! Refusing would make her seem like a selfish mongrel and accepting... well, that could lead to an endless road of manipulation and invasion of her privacy. What a bastard! What a travesty!

Again Betsy knocked the rogue thoughts away. “I’d be glad to,” she smiled through the yawn that came out of nowhere.

Charles returned the smile. “Sorry for keeping you up. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I’ll have someone show you to a guest room right away. Tomorrow we can continue sorting everything out with your brother and sister-in-law, whom I believe will shed much light into the situation.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Then Warren walked in.

*****************

The next day proved much more energetic, though less eventful, than the previous. Three former X-Men--Hank, Kitty, and Betsy--returned, and pretty much everyone wanted to talk to at least one of them. Early in the morning, Brian and Meggan showed up, thereby occupying Rachel and Kurt’s time as the Excalibur teammates caught up (that was, of course, after the visitors had a lengthy meeting with Charles). The Braddocks breathed a sigh of relief when they heard Betsy was up and about. Determined to help their friend as much as they could, Remy and Rogue volunteered to move Betsy’s things out of storage: giving the woman back her own private space would be a nice start reasoned Remy. As for Kitty, she hung out with Ororo as they talked about recent happenings and the older woman’s reoccurring friction with the Professor.

And Hank?

“Oh my stars and garters,” he mumbled.

Jean sat across from him soothing his enormous headache by using her powers. The migraine-like symptoms had been there since he woke, and like the aftermath of a bad drinking binge, he couldn’t remember how he got back to the mansion. He’d left months ago, right after...

“Betsy!” he gasped.

Sensing his impending breakdown, Jean staved off Hank’s recollections. She bottlenecked the memories, slowing their progress so they wouldn’t rattle him as much. Bits and pieces flowed into his consciousness, and while they didn’t lack for impact, at least he had an opportunity to ready himself.

The Beast gratefully sighed. “Thank you, Jean.”

“She’s ok now,” the redhead said, watching him muse over his thoughts. “Emma and Kitty got her back.”

“Where is she now?”

A telepathic search told her, “Settling down in her room.”

Pause, then, “Do you think she blames me for her death?”

Jean patted Hank’s furry hand. “I can’t answer for her, but my guess would be no.”

“She said she did though. She made me relive that day and showed me what I could’ve done.”

“She wasn’t herself, Hank.”

“What happened?”

Finally repairing most of the psychic trauma, Jean stood and straightened her clothes. “It’s Betsy’s story to tell. I think she’s just as afraid to talk to you as you are to her.”

“I’ll trust your impeccable judgment,” breathed Hank as he massaged his temples, “You’ve never been wrong about things like this.”

The redheaded smiled and offered her hand to him. “Come on, both of us need a late lunch.” Then, she added with a twinkle in her eye, “My treat.”

Slipping back into his lighthearted role was too easy, and as Charles had noted many times, one of his knee-jerk defense mechanisms. Hank placed a palm on his chest and swooned in his best Southern Belle imitation, “Why Ms. Grey! I’d be honored if you’d buy me a fine meal!”

They bantered all the way from the medlab to the dining room, which, in light of the recent guests, returning friends, and uncharacteristically idle X-Men, contained a buffet spread of everyone’s favorites. Well, that is, used to contain everyone’s favorites. Most of the team had already whirlwinded through, and what remained looked pitiful.

Sandwiches remained the one ray of hope.

Still in his effeminate voice, Hank gasped, “Leftovers! Deeeelicious! Ms. Grey, your frugal ways are exceeded only by your stunning beauty!”

Jean playfully smacked the back of his head for that one.

The good news about catching lunch after midday--privacy. Perfect time to broach tough subjects, break the ice, catch up on old times, and ease concerns, though not necessarily in that order.

Jean started easy. Between bites of greasy chips, she asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Remind me to stop waking up in odd places after a night on the town.”

“I’m serious, Hank. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” he laughed humorlessly. “Life as a retired X-Man isn’t as colorful as it once was. Been a straggler here and there, mostly cobbling side work for Stark Solutions. My good man Tony has been doing heavy lobbying to get me back into the Avengers despite my repeated declines. I swear, he has the most one-track mind I’ve honestly ever met. Can you say stubborn? Bejeezus! He’s an absolute nutcase when he puts his parietal lobe to it!”

No matter how interested in Tony Stark’s life Jean was--as evidenced by all those tabloids piled in her room--she wanted to know about the less neutral subjects, stuff like his plans, his state of mind, or hey, maybe even what Betsy did to him after he got captured. “Hank,” she interrupted, stopping him mid-ramble, “You’re babbling again.”

“Oh my stars and garters, I believe I am. My apologies, Jean. Where have my manners gone? On sabbatical perhaps?”

The redhead pushed her food away and fixed her eyes on the man in front of her. “We’re all here for you, Hank. If you need anything or have any problems, you can always come back to us. You know that, right?” When he didn’t reply, Jean just continued on. “Have you had a chance to think things over? The mansion hasn’t been the same without you. I... We miss you.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he whispered, “But returning has never been an option.”

“Be a teacher. Help us with research. Anything. We want you here.”

He’d imagined this exact conversation many times before. In dreams--daydreams or otherwise--he went through scenarios with each member of the X-Men and firmly stood by his absence from the team. However, as the Danger Room showed, simulation didn’t equate to reality. The steadfast demeanor, staunch defense, and stout, determined heart couldn’t even begin to counter Jean’s sad, soulful eyes.

His voice got raspy and he coughed to clear it. “I love all of you and would be overjoyed to be part of your lives again, but I don’t have the fortitude to be an X-Man anymore. Even if I was to be a mere teacher, I will still be embroiled in what I’ve tried so hard to avoid.”

“You can’t hide from adversity.”

“Yes I can!” he yelled, bringing his meaty fists down on the table. The brief, wild fury in his eyes subsided, and he muttered some choice words to chastise himself over the outburst. “Part of me dies every time one of you comes back wounded. Everyone else can go away and negotiate peace with themselves, but I have to treat you. Every gunshot, head trauma, and egregious mutant attack, I wonder to myself if I could’ve done more.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Hank,” lauded Jean, taking his hand in her own, “You’ve done the best job anyone could ask for, and none of us would be here without you.”

“Sometimes it’s not enough.” Defeat and weariness weigh down his large frame. “Seeing family clinging onto their lives is impossible. Were I an impartial, emotionless medic, I would return, but alas, I am not. I do my utmost to help every one of you, and when my utmost fails, the loss rips my heart asunder. You are not nameless faces and I can’t let you go. I’ve been by your bedsides during the worst of times, but I just can’t do it anymore. My only recourse is... well... retreat.”

Then he added with a snort, “Custard would be ashamed of me.”

The will to do good still shined. The ability to help still lingered. The knowledge to save lives still treaded about. The missing element was the gleam in his eyes, the want to play the unheralded mediator between mutants and human. Everyone knew Hank took Betsy’s death hard, but none suspected it was only the surface of the man’s misgivings.

Those who’d done as much as Jean and Hank had, those brave few deserved a right to be tired of the trials they’d gone through. Jean understood his sentiments and hoped that later down the road, he’d change his mind. Scott, Logan, Charles, Ororo, Rogue, pretty much everyone went through a burnout period, but return or no, Jean wanted to be there for Hank. They’d lost a few of their own through neglect, and she was determined not to let one of her oldest and dearest friends slip through the cracks.

Maybe a different approach would be more fruitful. Hank need closure and a dose of reassurance, so, “When you’re up to it, how about talking to Betsy?”

*****************

“Warren, I don’t want to talk about anything.”

Opened boxes littered the room. Clothes lay unhung, dust covered Japanese antiques, and furniture found itself piled into a corner. At the end of the day, perhaps the place would recover a smidgen of its lost glory, but at the moment, it remained an unfinished thought. And instead of sorting this fine mess, Betsy sorted another fine mess, one of the social/romantic persuasion in the form of Mr. Worthington.

To be fair, their unscheduled meeting last night didn’t go bad. The Professor shocked them both into silence and they parted with an uneasy exchange of goodnights. Apparently through the course of the night, Warren thought over a few unresolved issues and decided now was the perfect time to work them out.

Smart man too--he cornered her after Remy and Rogue left to get more boxes from storage.

“Why did you do it, Betsy?” he asked while following her around, “Why did you go to Neal? What did I do wrong?”

According to Rogue (who yammered away about this and that in a thinly veiled attempt to keep the mood light), Warren had Paige Guthrie on his arm now. By all accounts, they were happy, devoted, and inseparable. So why, Betsy wondered, dwell over their past and failed relationship?

Maybe if she kept moving her things he’d go away... but then again, she wouldn’t be dealing with Warren.

She brushed off a stray hair and said in her most uninterested voice, “I left because you didn’t understand me and never made an effort to.”

“And Neal did?”

“No, he didn’t either, but at least he was something new.”

Warren threw his arms up. “So that’s why you left? Got tired and decided to go for greener grass?”

“Bloody hell, Warren, you get like this when your feathers are ruffled and you’re impossible to deal with.”

His back stiffened as his face became unreadable. “Get like this? What does ‘this’ mean?”

Oh God, not now, please oh please not now. Betsy hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s eventfulness and here her ex-lover was throwing a tantrum the size of Jubilee’s admirable CD collection. She had an immense wealth of bitterness stored in her because of Belasco, not to mention stray bits of Emma’s thoughts and feelings floating about like cork in a thousand dollar bottle of merlot. The rational side of her didn’t want to unleash this rage upon him, but she couldn’t say the same for every other side of her.

For all his etiquette and chivalry, Warren could be a supreme ass when he wanted to be one. If he were to find his manhood or station in life insulted, he’d call upon the devious cutthroat (which made him the businessman he was) in him to strike back. Betsy’s hasty, ill-advised flirtation with Neal qualified as insult enough, and while she thought they’d dealt with their issues already, Warren hadn’t.

He had no claim over her. They’d both moved on.

Betsy reiterated her first statement. “I don’t want to talk about anything, Warren.”

“No you don’t,” he snarled, snaring her arm, “I want an explanation!”

His powerful grip should have hurt, but Betsy barely felt it. She looked down distastefully at his gesture and ordered, “Let go.”

His actions finally hit him, and he complied. “I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said, sounding appropriately remorseful, “I don’t know what came over me. I-”

“Don’t say another word,” she warned, “Just... get out. It’ll be best if we keep our distance from each other.”

“I wanted to-”

“I said not another word!”

Remy, full length mirror in tow, chose that moment to walk in. “Eh?” He raised a brow, “Dere somethin’ wrong ‘ere, chere?”

“Nothing. Warren was just about to leave. Isn’t that right?”

“Right,” the man nodded, accepting the exit, “I’ll see you around.”

The disapproving frown on the Cajun’s face said it all. “Y’ok, chere?”

“Never been better.”

Shrugging, Remy’s sunny demeanor returned as he gestured at his heavy burden. “Where you want dis?”

“Right there’s fine.”

They worked, hauling Betsy’s belongings from one place to the next. Essentials like bed and clothes got set up first while decorations lay in disarray. The aim: make the room livable by the end of the day, and judging by their progress, they’d probably make it if Rogue returned from wherever. On the bright side, without the woman’s chatter, the two slipped into a comfortable, peaceful pace.

As they went about their business, Remy smiled and softly said, “Death’s pretty interestin’.”

A crash of porcelain answered the comment. Betsy bent down to clean up the dropped items but showed no signs of acknowledging her companion’s observation. “Hand me the dustpan, please.”

“Lemme help you with that.”

They cleaned, and as they gathered shards of clay, Remy started back up the conversation. “De light... beautiful, wasn’t it?” he gently prodded.

“I wouldn’t know,” Betsy muttered, “Only light I saw came from hellfire.”

He repressed the pitying, sidelong glance he wanted to throw her way. Ok, touchy, dark, and painful subject approaching. In his eyes, Betsy had done more than enough to warrant the peace he himself felt during his out of body experience, and the revelation of an unpleasant afterlife threw the Cajun for a loop. Maybe a little news about vengeance was in order. In Remy’s experience, vengeance usually made people feel better.

Still nonchalant as ever, he said without looking at Betsy, “Roguey took care of Vargas.”

“Did she kill him?”

Not answering, he swept up the remnants of the mess and sighed.

And despite not hearing an answer, Betsy put two and two together. The X-Men, in the words of Summers and Xavier, weren’t about killing, and some people had problems with the creed--one of those was Remy. His silence only meant he didn’t want to voice his displeasure.

“Good,” she said unexpectedly and resumed her moving.

“Good what?”

“I’ll get a chance to kill him myself.”

That stirred some unfathomable, buried thoughts in him. Those red pupils got smaller, an indication of his concentration, combat readiness, and or seriousness. The levity made another disappearing act and his expression became grave. He dumped the broken porcelain in the trash and turned to face her.

“Over de years,” he began, “only you n’ Logan trusted me without question. Those t’ings you saw when you went through my head n’ found out ‘bout what I did with Sinister, you never told another soul.” Stepping closer to her, he whispered, “You saved Rogue at de expense of your life. I owe you, chere, n’ Remy LeBeau always pays his debts.”

His comforting hand found its way onto her shoulder. “If you ever need anything...”

“I’ll ask,” she finished.

He smiled. “Glad to have you back, Betts.”

Their Kodak moment lasted only a few seconds, and they took advantage of it with an embrace. The man had offered his word, his support, and his skills to be used at her discretion. She might’ve been gone and he might’ve had questions about her state of mind, but the sign of implicit trust went a long way to ease her ever increasing stress. Made her feel like part of the team again. It felt natural but at the same time overwhelming.

Soon enough, and remarkably timed, Rogue’s voice approached. By the way she conversed, she had company.

“... I know, sugah, don’t worry your l’il blonde heads cuz your sister’s settlin’ in just fine!” She paused long enough to look into the room, put her hands on her hips, and squint her eyes at her significant other. “Remy, ah thought ah told you to help Betsy. How come nothin’s done?”

“Mercy, chere. Me an’ Betsy just catchin’ up.”

“Well, less jawin’ and more workin’ LeBeau! Her brother’s here and ah wanna make a good impression.”

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted, snapping to it double time and all that good military mumbo jumbo Bishop marched to.

Betsy caught the twinkle in their eyes, a sign they’d been up to something. Telepathically, Betsy said to Rogue, *You had him talk to me.*

Odd. There was… something in the back of her head when she sent her message to Rogue, like a buzzing or a presence or… just something. Betsy hid the unexpected revelation well and made a decision to keep the telepathic conversation short.

Meanwhile, Rogue, who still stood at the door blocking the entrance to her unrevealed--though hardly mysterious--companions, playfully winked. Her thoughts, however, held a more somber tone. *Ah hope ya don’t mind. There’s lotta stuff ya probably don’t wanna talk about, but Remy and me, we wanted to thank you.*

*You’re welcome, Rogue.*

*Sugah, what are friends for?*

“So,” the brunette said aloud, “Here’s the girl o’ the hour. I’ll leave ya’ll ‘lone ta do family stuff. Come on, Remy.” Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him out of the room, “Let’s get outta here.”

“But Roguey! I ain’t done yet!”

“Hush, ya hear?”

Their subsequent mummers and giggles faded down the hall and in stepped Brian and Meggan Braddock.

“Aren’t they just lovely?” Meggan beamed, pecking her husband on the cheek.

To the interesting couple, Brian coughed into his hand to stifle any witty (and most possibly inappropriate) comments he had. Few appreciated his British humor. “Awesome, luv,” he settled on, then smiled at his twin sister, “Making yourself at home?”

“You have a flair for the obvious, Brian.”

He brushed off the jab with his natural aplomb. “My new mantle is, after all, Captain Obvious.” Cocking his head, he added, “I thought you were going to come back with us after you woke up.”

“I might,” Betsy allowed, “but since I’m here already, figured I should settle back in.”

Meggan’s unflappable smile immediately brightened. “If you are a bit tired after all this moving, would you come and have an early dinner with us? We are very happy about your return! I have so much to tell you!”

“Luv, Betsy’s probably a mite-”

“Nonsense!” she giggled. “We can have so much fun! How about Chinese? Greek? Oh oh, Italian!”

Lift heavy things or eat--hardly a choice at all. “I’ll get my coat.”

*****************

Late afternoon.

Lorna took a hit.

No, she wasn’t addicted. Addicts craved their drug of choice and stopped at nothing to get their next high. Lorna was... fond of her drug. She enjoyed the heady rush of excitement and the spike of power bleeding through her veins, but she didn’t need it. She could kick the habit at any time.

Haha, kick the Kick. Funny.

Whatever Kick gave her, it was superior to what her supposedly loving fiancée gave her. Alex Summers muddled through their wedding plans like a zombie, only less lively and more stoically. What do you think of this cake? Fine. How about my gown? Does it make me look fat? Kind of. How many people should be invite? Enough. Are you an asshole? Yes.

Why, a girl could get the idea he didn’t want her hand in holy matrimony.

But Kick made it all better. The arguments with Alex, the horrible nightmares she had about Genosha, and Magneto, her father, her brave, caring father who saved her from the slaughter and swore to be the presence he wasn’t in her childhood, the same father who left but now returned.

“Help me, my daughter.”

Of course, Papa.

“Together, we are invincible.”

Yes, Papa.

“You have to use your abilities.”

Yes, Papa.

“ALL of your abilities. Like right now. You have to cloud their minds and inject chaos into their hearts.”

I know, Papa.

“The world will tremble before our feet.”

Why, Papa?

“Because the world hurt us. They took me away from you. They took you away...”

The world has to pay, Papa. You know I love you , Papa. Papa? Are you there? Papa?

Papa? Papa?!

Flicker of light and the high left her.

That was the thing about inhaling Kick--didn’t last long enough. Needle wasn’t an option because she was out. Lorna found herself lying on her bed, none worse for the wear. A gentle knock on her door made her twenty pounds too heavy head roll at the unwanted noise.

“Lorna?” came Jubilee’s voice from the outside. “Ya got a package, girl. Leavin’ it on your doorstep if you’re in there. If you’re not, I guess I’m just talkin’ to myself.”

The pounding footsteps disappeared, thank God. Peeling herself from the bed, Lorna shuffled as fast as she could to retrieve the parcel and duck back into her sanctuary.

Yes, finally!

The sender? The Kensington Informatics Company of Kentucky, or the aptly abbreviated K.I.C.K. Hey hey, her new shipment of Kick. Had Lorna been in a right state of mind, she would’ve noticed some strange things. Like for example, what company ever got a package from Kentucky to New York overnight when the shipping cost was clearly calculated for standard shipping? Oh, what about the fact she never sent out for shipments of Kick, and somehow, they managed to get to her whenever she needed it? How did the sender know to package only needles this time?

Whatever.

Lorna took a hit.

*****************

Emma hated the Danger Room. She understood its importance and marveled at its technology, but she hated the virtual space with a passion none suspected. The sterile walls, the psychically unreadable illusions, the very real pain--she felt like a cow wearing a large “Tip Me” sign, and Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER felt that way... even when she clad herself in leathers and over-indulged on her favorite foods... which was, yet again, something Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER did.

Too bad though. Scott “My Problems Are Worse Than Yours” Summers required all local, active members of the X-Men to log at least one hour per week in the blasted room. Sure, she was far from defenseless and rarely made an oaf of herself, but the ineffectiveness of her mental powers tested her patience. Her fighting style hinged on being able to read her opponent, then confusing them with mental illusions. Yes, she could throw a mean punch too, but Emma preferred the others think of her as a fragile, physically incapable female.

This led her to the habit of venturing into the Danger Room alone.

She didn’t mind failing. She didn’t mind the pain too much, especially since she could shift to her diamond form. She didn’t mind the workout and actually appreciated it. However, she minded her weapon of choice being taken from her, and she didn’t want any one knowing she could hold her own without her powers. Back in Generation X, Sean got a surprise when he made that assumption, and Emma wanted to keep that proverbial ace up her sleeve.

Dutifully, the blonde programmed in her normal, light sequence of scenarios and prepared herself for a mish mash of drudgery, combat, mild excitement, and reflex honing. Maybe she could even expel some of that aggression she saved up from last night.

The Danger Room fizzled away, replaced by a sophisticated, indoor firing range. Weapons of all calibers lined the walls, and from the cache, Emma selected two semi-automatic handguns. Targets small and large meandered through the soon-to-be bullet-ridden up no man’s land, attempting in their own little mechanical ways to avoid getting shot.

A series of bangs and a bunch of smoke emanated from where she stood.

“Accuracy: 93.33%,” said the Danger Room’s system, “Retry scenario?”

She hit with twenty eight of thirty bullets--good enough, but she was a perfectionist. However, today, she found target practice (usually her favorite activity) uninspiring, and the drive to do more wasn’t there. Aforementioned aggression? Still there and thirsting for something more.

“End program,” Emma commanded. “Run CQC, level 5.”

In place of the firing range appeared the interior of a nondescript gym. No more guns on the walls, only mirrors. Cement flooring got covered by a room wide mat, perfect for getting thrown on. A deadly looking man resembling a younger and scruffier Kurt Russell decked out in army fatigues stood in the middle. Muscular but not bulky, he fell into his fighting stance with a deliberate, intimidating, and predatory grace. Arms up, knees bent, he seemed to allow a great deal of vulnerability to his gut, but one look at his elbows and feet told the blonde he would be ready to counter any such attack.

Always a cerebral fighter, Emma didn’t respond to the man’s movements, choosing to remain standing and seemingly unprepared. She scoffed at herself for trying to intimidate a computer simulation, but in all honesty, her other encounters with this same program hadn’t gone well. She’d been stuck at this difficulty level for the past four months, and the record was a humbling seventeen and zero in favor of wanna-be Kurt Russell. His fighting skills and physical strength were simply superior to Emma’s, and believe you me, the blonde tried everything short of assuming her diamond form to subdue the man, including but not limited to low blows, concealed weaponry, programmed allies, and firearms.

Until now, she accepted her defeat, noted her weaknesses, worked on them, and hoped the next week would show progress. Today, perhaps caving in to her ever increasing stress, she didn’t want to end up lying on the mat. Pride about her fighting skills welled up, and...

Those were Betsy’s feelings, weren’t they?

Sensing a moment’s distraction, the man threw his fist forward to catch Emma’s jaw. On a good day at the height of her concentration, she would’ve deflected the blow, but no, not today. For some reason, his normally lightning quick strikes slowed a hair, and even with a stray thought occupying her, Emma had the presence of mind to back step out of his range. Unperturbed by the dodge, he lunged again, this time using a standing sweep to trip up his opponent.

Reflexes took over and she stepped into his attack. Instead of his leg connecting on her shins, his thigh ineffectively bumped hers, which didn’t do any damage and left him off balance. Pressing her advantage, Emma hooked his arm and droved his face against the mat. His awkward position and body weight assisted by her force produced an ominous snap, and before she could gloat over her handiwork, the man disappeared.

“CQC level 5 completed. Retry scenario?”

Did she just...? But didn’t the guy...? How come he was so...?

Emma’s eyes widened in excitement. “Scenario revision,” she called out, “CQC level 6.”

The same man reappeared in the middle of the room, and he didn’t waste any time. He charged in, tackling Emma and pushing her into the wall. His fists pounded her side, driving the breath from her and refusing to let her recover. Eventually, he eased up to right himself and deliver a knockout hit, but Emma moved too quickly for him: she ducked his roundhouse punch and nailed him between the legs. She stood up and he bent over, allowing the blonde to move to his left and send him flipping with a vicious kick underneath the chin.

Right when he landed, he winked out of existence.

“CQC level 6 completed. Retry scenario?”

“CQC level 7.”

This one put up a minor fight, but he had a date with a mirror and he had to leave.

“Level 8.”

The vast array of moves didn’t save him from all the broken bones.

“Level 9!”

Good, but not good enough. He didn’t expect that head butt.

“Level 10!”

Now, fighting this one energized her. Back and forth the advantage went, and the more blows exchanged, the more her spirit soared. This harmony with her body... unbelievable! Their battled seemed like an improvised masterpiece, fitting together into a painting or a dance or a song. A few instances, Emma even felt like she’d left her body, allowing to it react on its own; the nothingness and weightlessness balanced nicely against the flowing movements. A runner’s high some people called it, but only this combination of satisfaction, adrenaline, and artistry related to the martial arts. And in the final brushstroke, Emma thrust the side of her hand into man’s exposed neck. He coughed, stumbled, then dropped to the floor.

“CQC level 10 completed. Program suite completed.”

Emma gazed at the empty gym. She never experienced any transcending aspects of hand-to-hand combat before, but it felt a lot like her first successful foray into telepathy: exhausting and rewarding. If this was how Betsy felt whenever she fought, then... wow. No wonder she loved the Danger Room.

Suddenly, Tessa’s voice and mild applause crackled over the speakers. “I am impressed, Emma.”

Damn that woman. She was one of the few people who could sneak up on Emma. “Close program and logout.”

The Danger Room in all its sterile glory came back into being, and high above, Tessa loomed behind the control room’s glass.

“Why are you here?” the blonde asked, displeased.

“You went over your allotted time,” said Tessa, “My hour is after yours.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Emma made for the exit, content to get away from the woman.

Tessa, however, had other ideas. “Your style is remarkably like Psylocke’s. I did not know you studied aikido or karate.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“No, I do not, but I make it my business to scrutinize, analyze, and dissect all information available.” The blonde continued on her way out, ignoring Tessa. “I have found a disturbing trend on the premises of late,” Tessa called out, “Because I only have conjectures at this point, my words to you are simple: I will be watching your every move.”

That sounded like a threat, but to the best of Emma’s knowledge, Tessa never threatened so... so... inelegantly. Her supposed categorical knowledge of everything made her into a wallflower, and when she did act, she preferred cloak and dagger over strong-arm tactics. So then was this a friendly warning? Hard to believe considering their icy relationship (which of course stemmed from their Hellfire days). Despite being part of the X-Men, neither woman would mind the other not showing up for breakfast one morning. What could possibly rattle Tessa so much that she not only acted uncharacteristically but also didn’t approach someone else like the Professor?

Well, maybe the assumptions had a hand in that.

Puzzling woman that one, and compounded by her resistance to Emma’s telepathy, also an annoying one.

On the way to her room, Emma smashed into a seemingly preoccupied Xorn and landed flat on her back.

“Excuse me,” the man immediately said, extending his hands and helping her up.

Since he was so nice, “No harm done.”

All would’ve been fine with the world if Emma could just waltz into her private space and take the relaxing shower she’d been fantasizing about for the past five minutes. But no, her own feet betrayed her, placing her in front of Betsy’s old (Or was it current?) room. Was it so hard to ask for the little things to go right? Really, only two other people made their abodes in this wing--Logan and Kurt--and Emma didn’t want to see either of them.

Sighing, she turned tail and went back down the hall, this time firmly guiding her increasingly scattered thoughts.

*****************

Limbo, the point between everywhere and nowhere, Amanda’s home. Last few days, this bastion had seen more visitors and action than it had in the past year. Doctor Strange left not long ago, and now, she walked amongst her belongings to admire them.

Limbo, the point between everywhere and nowhere, Amanda’s home, was extremely boring like that.

Battle armor, eyes of newt, chains of memories, a giant’s flute, flaming canes, random banes, flowers of spring, instruments of pain, shiny trinkets, missing trinkets, ebony mirrors, iron-

“Hold the phone,” she said to herself, “Missing trinkets?”

She observed her vast collection of trinkets and noticed a small space between her rings and bracelets. What was suppose to be there? Think, think, think...

Ah, yes, a pendant! The pendant which served as a bypass around Limbo, enabling the wearer to go from the Otherworld to the actual world in one clean hop.

“Where did I put that thing?”

Amanda turned Limbo upside down but still couldn’t find it.

*****************

Dinner at the nearest Italian restaurant was a quiet affair. Suffice to say, discussing the intricacies of Belasco’s gruesome skills over a plate of eggplant parmesan met stiff resistance. Meggan wanted to focus on lighter topics; Brian tried to pick Betsy’s brain; Betsy hadn’t even sorted it all out yet, and she sure as hell didn’t want to blabber about anything in public. Brian’s insistence pestered Betsy, and by the time they’d exchanged their sibling snipes at each other, neither were in the mood to humor Meggan. In turn, Meggan ignored the two and passed the time by twiddling her thumbs.

That and debating with herself how long Brian would be sleeping on the couch when they got home.

For being the ruler of the Otherworld, Brian sure put himself in a lose-lose situation: his wife and twin sister both slapped him with the Silent Treatment. The devious glimmer in Meggan’s eyes and the venomous glare in Elisabeth’s convinced him to work everything out before the two women in his life crushed his spirit.

Brian put his fork down. “Betsy, how about you take a vacation with us? Fancy a cruise?”

“Lovely, Brian. Then I can spend all of my days on a boat underneath your scrutiny with no means of escape save overboard. Lovely.”

“I’m looking out for you. Who knows what Belasco did to you?”

“I know what he did to me,” Betsy flatly said, resuming her meal.

“Don’t I have a right to worry about you?”

“Yes you do, so if you have anything you want to say to me, say it.”

“I...”

“Want to know if I’m really your sister? Want to know what the deal is with Frost? Want to know what else Belasco had in mind when he gathered all the other poor saps and assaulted the Otherworld? Want to know what to do about my tombstone in your backyard?”

“What is your problem?!”

“Life.” Tiredly, she motioned their waiter for the bill. “Sorry, but I’m not playing twenty questions anymore.”

“That’s it? I lose you for months, fight for your soul, and when I try show support, you’re suddenly a Prima Donna? Do you even want to see me?”

“Back off, ok? Next time you come back from the dead, remind me to watch over you like a hawk and treat you like glass.”

Brian tried to say more, but Meggan caught his gaze and shook her head. No good could come out of this, and while the blonde woman was angry at her husband, she wasn’t heartless enough to let him flounder. “Call us,” she said to Betsy.

Her sister-in-law spared her a strained smile before leaving money on the table and disappearing out the door. Brian groaned, put his head in his hands, and released a great breath. “That could’ve gone better.”

“No, it couldn’t have.” A confused Brian silently beg his better half for an explanation. Lucky him, Meggan could never resist those doleful eyes. “Honey, Betsy’s gone through the Otherworld’s worst, and now, she’s inside a demon’s body. She had any number of reasons to walk out on you and pressing her to open up one day after she gets back control of herself isn’t your most intelligent idea. We both know she has a rebellious streak after what the Hand did to her.”

“She’s always had the rebellious streak,” he confessed, “but, as usual, you’re right. I just wished she’d let me help her. I know I can make her feel better.”

“Brian, she is your sister: being here for her already makes her feel better. She’ll come back to you if you stop nagging. Be glad to know that for the most part, your sister’s soul is still intact. Besides, you are sooo cute when you’re arguing, it’ll be an injustice to split you apart. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a pair of twins more different than the two of you.”

“Thanks, luv, I really needed that backhanded compliment.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled and batted her eyelashes, “you deserved it after ruining dinner.”

“Awww bugger, I know that look. You’re putting me on the couch tonight, aren’t you?”

“Your powers of deduction are astounding, Captain Obvious.”

*****************

What Emma would’ve given for a quiet, Italian dinner... oh, like this encounter with Xavier for instance. Started innocuously enough.

Emma. Charles. Could I have a word with you about the semester grades? They’ll be done at the end of the week. I was thinking about giving you an extension. Really? Really. No thank you, I will have the grades in by then. Emma, you shouldn’t push yourself. Charles, I know my limits. Betsy doesn’t know hers. What are you insinuating? Perhaps this conversation would be better in my office.

Damn him, hooking her in like that.

She tapped her feet, wishing the office’s carpet was of a harder material so her displeasure could reverberate off the walls. “Aren’t you going to ask about yesterday’s gory details?”

“No,” the Professor said as he gestured for the blonde to sit, “I’m going to ask how one of my instructors is feeling after a harrowing twenty four hours.”

She slid onto one of the velvet couches and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tired and fetid.”

“Fetid?”

“There was a swamp and, well, never mind. There was a swamp. I can still smell the decaying plants.”

“My... condolences,” he carefully said behind a smile. Seeing Emma’s relaxed state, he kept the light, casual tone as he talked. “I understand you also had quite an exchange with Betsy last night. Jubilee’s rumor mill has been amazingly busy.”

Emma had a million reasons to ignore Charles ranging from his shady actions to his legendary (and often blind) idealism. He’d worked his brand of palatable manipulation on her before, giving just enough to entice her but taking back as much as he wanted--see her presence at his mansion teaching under his roof for an example. After her Hellions died, she thought maybe her old methods were wrong and that his were better. Turned out his pacifist ways produced no better results: Everett would agree if he wasn’t dead. Old man Xavier was as shifty as he was bald, and although Emma loved a good challenge, she hated losing, which was something she did too often around him.

Both acknowledged the horde of unresolved issues between them, and for their own selfish reasons, coexisted with each other in spite it all. Charles needed bona fide teachers and Emma needed to teach; however, her contract made no mention of this X-Men garbage and she got dragged into it any way (though it was hard to turn a blind eye when the classrooms get attacked). After looking at their encounters, the blonde noticed she more often than not got stuck with the short end of the proverbial stick, hence her contempt for him.

But today, Charles was too disarming. How could she summon her passive-aggressiveness when he dripped caring and concern? She wanted a fight, not this huggy-feely stuff!

Damn him, catching her in a moment weakness like that.

“Betsy and I reached an understanding,” she allowed.

“So I’ve gathered from all the people I’ve spoken to.” The Professor neglected to mention he’d have to be psi-mute or dead to not sense the amount of energy expended in the medlabs last night. Ever the opportunist, he folded his hands together and helped Emma’s sputtering mind along. “Are you feeling any effects of your merging with Elisabeth?”

“Mild effects,” she reflexively answered. “Emotion fragments, borrowed memories, acquired skills--nothing traumatic or overbearing.”

“Those are hardly mild symptoms, Emma. Given time, they could do your psyche much harm, especially the negative subconscious aspects loosened by the encounter.”

Yes, and? “I am hardly a novice when it comes to these things. I’ll be fine.”

“And in case you aren’t fine? Your teammates are willing to help you any way they can, myself included.”

Emma almost accepted the offer: the affirmative hung on the tip of tongue before she regained in enough good sense to give it a swift--and hopefully painful if words could feel pain--death. Thanks to Betsy, she might have had a rosier view of Charles, but willing to bare her neck to him she was not. When all was said and done, the man was one of the most selfish, egomaniacal, and arrogant people in existence. Had to be one to lead a bunch of renegades who fought for “the peaceful co-existence between humans and mutants.”

Ah, finally! Her passive-aggressiveness found time out of its busy schedule to plop itself between Xavier’s unfathomable purposes and her own agendas.

“Papers await,” Emma said, dodging Xavier’s olive branch, “Besides, I can only take so much mindless drabble in one day.”

Stand, pivot, walk, exit, slam--like so, the blonde poofed away. Charles waited a few seconds before calling out, “Tessa?”

The dark haired woman emerged from behind the curtains, sunglasses on and face unreadable. “Emma Frost is always one to look out for,” she said, answering the question in the Professor’s eyes.

“Is that your personal or professional opinion?”

“Both,” she replied. “She has the knowledge, ability, clearance, and motivation to strike a crippling blow to the X-Men, but...”

Her words held him in rapt attention. “Go on.”

“... but the probability of that is low. Her mannerisms--introspectiveness, momentary confusion, mood swings--indicate a certain level of preoccupation, which in and of itself is not associated with the White Queen. The same aloofness held true for our exchange earlier today, and while these may be suspicious signs any other time, her excursion with Shadowcat and Psylocke adequately explain her changes. Therefore, my assessment of her would be ‘unthreatening.’ Since we are under a presumable time constraint and combing for enemies amongst our own, which in and of itself takes time, I suggest we remove her from our list of suspects.”

Charles clasped his hands and nodded slowly. “Good. Continue with your impeccable work, Tessa. I would like our potential saboteur to be quietly dealt with before I take my leave of absence. Are you sure you can handle this without anyone else’s help?”

“Positive--I will have their identity by Saturday. There are only three more people I have to observe.”

“They would be?”

“Jean Grey, Kuan-Yin Xorn, and Remy LeBeau.”

*****************

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Chicago, one Doctor Isa Hayes packed up the last of his belongings. Scratch that--more like belongings the goons of Frost Enterprises didn’t rip from his hands yesterday. His lifelong research, gone in one night. Government agencies would’ve set him up for life because of his schematics; radical activists would’ve killed for five minutes with his program suite. Instead now, all of it fell into the lap of a corporation because, in his desperation two years ago, he’d signed over the rights to his intellectual property so he could get funding. While everyone else laughed him off, calling his theories and methods ludicrous, Frost Enterprises backed him and never questioned him.

So why did he get fired? Because he did a favor for the owner of the multi-billion dollar conglomerate? Bullshit, but nonetheless, bullshit he’d have to take because he was one of the “little people,” one of those honest, hard working Joes who got trampled under the stiletto heeled feet of the powerful. Not for the first time, he wondered if his firing was a well-orchestrated plot to strip him of his most prized possession, and the more he mulled over this possibility, the more he found it sensible. However, he dared not let the outrage show for fear of the hulking security baboons looming outside his office door.

Well, at least they left him a shred of dignity by letting him pack up his things in private. “Twenty minutes,” one of the simpletons grunted, “And don’t take no company property either.”

Isa felt it wise to not mention the idiot’s use of double negatives. He wouldn’t get grammar, nor the cruel reality that his security job was just as easily swept aside as a researcher’s blood, sweat, and tears, if not more so.

Three cardboard boxes. Doctor Isa Hayes, Harvard graduate, boiled down to three lousy boxes containing reference texts, coffee mugs, pencils, and an optical mouse. They even took his precious notebooks, citing something in his contract about his doodles being potential leaks of Frost Enterprises’ investment. Yes, some contained formulas, but did they also have to “repossess” his daily planner? The grocery list didn’t have sensitive material, only how much juice to get by week’s end.

Bastards. All of them. Fucking bastards.

Between his mental cursing, the unexpected happened: the phone rang.

Who would be calling him now? He almost didn’t answer, but his curious nature got the best of him. “Hello?”

“Doctor Hayes,” a distorted, male voice greeted, “Would you like to destroy the mutant who ruined your life?”

“Wait a second, who is this?”

“Does my identity matter? Your mortgage payments are coming up, your pièce de résistance is gone, and I offer you a way to reclaim lost glory. Revenge, contrary to what people say, is a dish best served immediately, repeatedly, and with a side of wrath. So old chap, should we get cooking?”

“I…”

Years of conforming to scientific integrity ate at him. Not only was accepting this offer unprofessional, it was also extremely dangerous. Mutant? What mutant ruined him? Henry McCoy? Who was talking on the other end of the line? Was this a joke? Even worse, maybe the crazy man really meant what he said. Isa didn’t have the information to make a good decision, but yet, he found himself drawn to this stranger’s ideas. He had nothing to lose: no family to think about, no colleagues who’d help him, and most importantly, no job to keep himself afloat. He had a bone to pick and now, a means to pick the bone with.

“Will I get back my research?” he asked hesitantly.

“Why yes.”

Isa bit his bottom lip as the phone shook in his grasp.

The voice chuckled. “Time’s up, and I guess you’re not interested. Too bad, your genius would’ve made setting up the genetic templates so much easier.”

Setting up genetic templates? “You have my materials already?!”

Silence on the other end.

“I’ll do it!” he yelled. “Did you hear me?! I’ll do it!”

The laughing came back. “That’s better, Doctor Hayes. Now, leave like good little ex-employee and I will contact you soon enough.”

*****************

Outside Emma’s room, Betsy hesitated mid-knock. She’d been off kilter, acting unusually around the Professor, Brian, and pretty much everyone else. On the origins of her thoughts she had no doubt, but what to do? She exchanged aspects of herself with Emma. If she removed those aspects, would they be lost forever, essentially killing a part of the other woman? No answers cropped up but a bunch of concerns did.

And Betsy found herself immensely concerned with a certain blonde’s welfare. Honestly, more than once she drifted onto an Emma tangent, and try she might, she couldn’t stop her treasonous mind. Emma this, Emma that, what would Emma do, would Emma say this, were these Emma’s ideas, that reminds me of Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma.

This was an obsession bordering on stalker-like behavior, and Elisabeth Braddock NEVER, EVER obsessed. Best option now was to see Emma, psychically straighten each other, and pretend last night didn’t happened. Obsession wasn’t healthy; neither was an identity crisis.

Resolve hardened, Betsy knocked and no one answered.

Stupid. Emma didn’t sit in her room all day and wait for people to drop by. Stupid. Using her regained telepathy seemed like the easiest way to locate Emma, but a fear sent shivers up her spine. Nonsense and stupid fear, but a fear nonetheless. The few times Betsy had used her telepathy earlier in the day, a mysterious, foreign presence loomed in the background, and despite the unthreatening aura it exuded, her time with the Shadow King reminded her of more malevolent beings.

Oh yeah, the extra intruder was one disturbing addition. Maybe the thing belonged to Emma, a specter she hid away from everyone who’d ever known her. Maybe it was the Shadow King again--besides, you could never truly destroy energy, so quoeth Forge when he got on one of his techno tirades. Instead of investigating the oddity, Betsy ignored it. In her experience, investigating things tended to blow up in her face, and leaving problems to fester--while not appealing--did work out much better. Just look at what happened when she and Kwannon got to finding out what Spiral really did to them: Kwannon ended up dead and Betsy herself found out her body wasn’t her own. With Mojo’s handiwork in mind, Psylocke built the highest, strongest, and quickest defense she could, stopped using her telepathy, and went about her business.

She hoped against hope that this was Emma’s problem and the blonde would take it back, no questions asked.

But Emma wasn’t in at the moment, and since Betsy didn’t want to use her powers, well, that meant no Emma. Betsy found herself stuck between disappointed and elated; true to the attitude she’d adopted, she skipped asking questions and went directly to being elated over being elated. When you’d gone through as much as she had, you take joy wherever it’s found.

With the object of her search absent, her room in utter disorder, and herself antsy from dinner, Betsy slipped outside the mansion to walk off her excess energy and rediscover Westchester’s magnificent scenery. Although currently lacking snow covered majesty, the evergreen trees, lush grass, and pale moonlight painted the mansion grounds like a serene nature masterpiece. Worries washed out into the landscape, blasted away by the first bites of the chilly winter wind.

Having lived here for so long, she knew the surroundings by heart and allowed her feet to carry her wherever they pleased. Wrapped in the mansion’s ambience, she worked on tuning out her higher thoughts, allowing herself to just be. It was like her craving for dangerous action: the odd dichotomy of vulnerability and openness freed her. At the height of combat, her spirit slipped away, and with both body and soul left on their own, the separate entities stretched their proverbial legs, rejuvenating her when they later returned and always leaving her wanting more.

Did Emma feel that way when she assumed her diamond form?

No, no, no, there she was again. Frustrated, Betsy rubbed her temples. She needed Emma now, and they had to stop her stumbling, bumbling, straying mind. Christ, she hated being so needy. Maybe if they hadn’t made such a mess in each other’s heads last night she’d be less ambivalent about these Emma thoughts, but they did make a mess, and the sympathy she felt a day ago didn’t return today.

On top of her uncooperative self, she contended with her overprotective brother, a mansion full of unexplainable drama (if Warren was any indication), a potential touch and go counseling appointment with Scott, the inevitable awkwardness when she’d run into Beast, a seemingly incredibly manipulative Professor, the prerequisite background murmurs that haunted every X-Man who came back after an absence, and where the hell was she?

The mansion, showing only its roof and chimney, peeked over a crop of trees. Further away was the outdoor pool, but between building and body of water stood a small gazebo. Long ago, before the pool broke this part of the property’s privacy, a then amorous couple put it up for their own romantic getaways, but since then, it served as a well-traversed rest area. During warmer months, busy teachers, tired students, and mansion guests could be found lounging on the gazebo’s wooden bench or, in the case of Remy and Logan, smoking as they leaned against the railing.

Today, Emma Frost sat on the bench, her legs crossed and a decanter of amber liquor by her side. Her white cashmere sweater and matching leather pants accented her flawless body, and even in such a relaxed state, the blonde oozed her trademark sex appeal. She held two glasses--one in each hand--and looked to be expecting company.

Betsy took the unspoken invitation and joined Emma. Wordlessly, the blonde gave her the glass from her left and sipped from the one in her right. Even far away, the alcohol’s heady, pungent aroma made Betsy smile: Remy Martin Louis XIII Cognac, perhaps the finest and certainly one of the most expensive drinks in existence.

Now Betsy wasn’t unfamiliar with booze, but she certainly hadn’t drank enough to identify Louis XIII on smell alone. If her memory didn’t betray her, she’d say she never had any of this stuff.

Another Emma tangent and in the presence of Emma no less. Time to get her life back on track before she turned into Emma.

“You knew I was coming,” Betsy observed as she eyed the booze.

“I had a feeling,” Emma said, “Wanted to find out if it was just a feeling or something more.”

“And?”

She sipped, closing her eyes to savor the alcohol. “It’s something more. I’m precognitive.”

Precognition. One of Betsy’s old powers before the Shadow King changed everything. She wasn’t on the magnitude of Destiny, but on rare occasions, she got vague but incredibly accurate inklings. It wasn’t something she controlled, but the ability held a dear place in her heart, and now, it got transferred to Emma.

“Just bloody peachy,” Betsy sighed.

About the aforementioned foreign presence? Yeah, that, it didn’t go away. Every second with Emma, the thing grew in her mind’s horizon, begging for attention like a bloated corpse. Took Betsy some effort to ignore it, effort she didn’t have.

“What’s the matter?” asked Emma, noticing her companion’s uneven breaths. “Scared? Confused? You’re projecting an awful lot of emotions and you haven’t even taken a drink yet.”

“If I’m being so obvious, then you should know why I’m like this. I’m turning into you because I have enough problems of my own to deal with. I don’t need whatever is happening to me--to us--right now. We meshed our minds together, so we can separate ourselves again, this time correctly.”

Emma didn’t seem fazed at the request, only intrigued. “What’s wrong with us now, Betsy? Just last night you were telling me how much you understood me and the comfort we could give each other. You’re strong, strong enough to survive what Belasco did to you and whatever dangers the X-Men have encountered. Instead, I take one look at you now and you’re broken. Your mental shields are so high, you’re almost psi-mute. You’re so nervous, I can almost taste it. What happened? Elisabeth Braddock would never run from her problems like a coward.”

Amidst the strained ignoring of her psychic invader, Betsy gathered enough of her wits to say, “Emma Grace Frost, like a coward, never faced her problems.”

“I had no one to turn to,” the White Queen parried, “My brother was committed, I left my sham of a family, the Hellfire Club didn’t leave much room for trust, and most people here still think I’m the enemy. Tell me, which executioner should I ask for the next time I need help?”

Betsy turned away from Emma’s intense stare.

“I thought so,” the blonde continued. “You’re different, and you have no excuse for not dealing. Your twin brother desperately wants to help you. You could ask any X-Man and they’ll lay down their life for you. Happened before with the Crimson Dawn and will happen again if you say the words.”

“Then I’m saying it now: help me separate you from me.”

Years of communicating with adolescent children prevented Emma from throwing her glass of cognac into the ground, but she didn’t want the temptation. She moved the decanter out of arm’s reach and set her drink down.

Some people could be so aggravating.

“Have you given a second’s thought to our situation?”

“Are you kidding me?” scoffed Betsy, “This is the only thing I’ve been thinking about the entire day. I can’t go two steps without attaching your face to a thought.”

Yes, people could be aggravating and stupid. “I’m touched that you think of me so much, but I’m talking about the ramifications of yesterday. As far as I can tell, our powers are genetic, so how did they get swapped? On top of our powers, abilities also got switched. Suddenly, I can fight like you. My muscles react like yours, guiding me when my brain can’t even process it all. Our minds fused, not our bodies. I ran a DNA scan at the medlabs this afternoon, and it says I am completely me.”

The being outside of Betsy’s shields clamored away, relentlessly testing her shoddy barriers.

“Do you know about my psychic rapport with your brother? No doubt you left some of that one behind and I can’t believe you haven’t caught onto it. Seems like I know him better than you, because I feel his disappointment and helplessness from here. What did you say to the man? And why do I want to hurt you for hurting him?”

Pieces of her walls fell away, but Betsy wouldn’t have any of it. She sealed the breaches as best she could, standing tall against both this thing and Emma’s onslaught.

“Did you ask yourself any of these questions? Did you even look within yourself? We don’t share memories any more, but if my mind is any indication, we still share emotions. If you run and hide, this free-floating mess is going to drive you insane. It’s just going to gnaw away at you as your mind reaches to connect feelings it can’t put into context.”

Unlike Emma, Betsy didn’t have the woman’s restraint. Her glass of cognac went careening into the gazebo’s deck. “I’m dealing and I’m asking you for help! Where have you been? I don’t want your sermon! I just want to be myself again!”

The blonde’s free hand darted up and caught Betsy’s wrist. “Be yourself again?” she sneered. “Feel this,” she pressed, putting the wrist up to eye level, “Feel this and tell me if you have a pulse. Hate to burst your bubble, but you’re never going to be yourself again.”

“We can try-”

“No,” Emma cut in, “Don’t say it anymore. Too much can go wrong if we separate from each other again. Our changes go beyond physical and mental levels, and I see a very real possibility of us fouling up and not coming out alive. What if one consciousness becomes dominant? What if we destroy each other? What if we worsen our minds?”

The truth hurts. Whereas a lie can be disproved, the truth persists. You can accept it, hide from it, or be consumed by it. Betsy was in a hiding mood; too bad Emma wasn’t.

Imagine the White Queen’s razor sharp wits bolstered by Psylocke’s gall and assassin’s mentality. Imagine that formidable combination focused against an Emma Frost without her air of superiority and an Elisabeth Braddock without a means of escape. Imagine dealing with a White Queen in full “bitch” mode while holding off a persistent telepathic assault.

A slight gasp escaped Betsy, a sign her mental resistances crumbled. Her vision blurred as the release of psychic energies washed over her. A splitting headache dizzied her, and oh my, the floor sure moved fast for dead wood. Before she could hold an impromptu conference with the remains of her cognac, Emma reached out and kept her from falling.

On contact, a sharp spike of power pulled their astral forms from their bodies and left both wide-eyed women staring at each other.

*You,* said Betsy, devoid of ill will, *You were the one in my mind.*

If she wasn’t busy being awestruck at their sudden state of being, Emma would’ve answered. More than a psychic rapport but less than yesterday’s complete merging, their current--and very sudden--connection allowed thoughts and feelings to breeze back and forth like a constantly open mind link. It was like connection two bodies of water, their essences mixing but still remaining separate entities. Betsy shimmered, images of her current ideas and sensations overlaying her astral form.

Her eyes unclearly watching shards of broken glass glisten in alcohol.

Her frustration of never truly being Elisabeth Braddock, instead always Captain Britain’s sister, Psylocke, or now, threatening to become Emma Frost’s shadow.

Emma’s thought-to-be subtle, inquiring mental prodding revealed themselves as withering assaults. The blonde didn’t call to Betsy out of malice but rather out of true curiosity: she felt an unfinished bond between them and ventured to discover more about it. Only she didn’t know her strength, nor did she take into account Betsy’s fragileness. Augmented by the Shadow King’s power, those gentle taps against Betsy’s shields translated into hammering blows. To worsen matters, judging how freely telepathy operated between them, Emma was certain they were more easily susceptible to each other’s powers, further acerbating matters.

Hence the wince and the *I’m sorry, Betsy.*

And Emma was an open book to Betsy as well. Yelling, screaming, threats, attacks, anger, and hate tended to melt away when confronted with genuine concern, and while the blonde generally didn’t show it, she couldn’t hide it here. Not that Betsy wasn’t a bit peeved, but her apology and transparent thoughts went a long way to earning forgiveness.

See Emma mull over yesterday. See Emma search self for answers. See Emma find some answers. See Emma want to share those answers. See Emma puzzled over Betsy’s defensiveness. See Emma get flash of precognition. Finally, see Emma confront Betsy for what’s believed to be her own good.

Kind of hard to get mad over that, especially now since the mysterious, domineering presence turned out to be Emma and… and…

*Do you think we can separate our selves now?*

Emma couldn’t say no anymore. Lodged in Betsy’s astral form were aspects of herself she readily identified and vice versa--they appeared to be hodge-podge mixtures of each other. Already bonded so closely, exchanging snippets of consciousness a little at a time seemed feasible.

Bowing her head, Emma acquiesced. *You realize we have no clue what we’re doing.*

*No, we did this before.*

*Tell me how that turned out.*

*Well,* Betsy smiled, *third time’s the charm.*

*For you maybe.* Ditching the humor, Emma glided to her companion and took her hand. *Ready?*

*Ready as I’ll ever be.*

They expected resistance. They expected difficulties. They expected Emma’s dry wit and Betsy’s killer instinct to put up a fight. They got none of it.

Betsy blinked. *Kind of anti-climatic.*

*Nothing wrong with anti-climatic, but...*

*But?*

*Are you disturbed at how easy the process is?*

*Mildly.*

*Same here, and that’s what has me worried.*

*You never stop worrying.*

*It’s my job as an educator, businesswoman, and mutant.*

*Then maybe you should take a vacation.*

*Look who’s talking,* Emma chuckled. *Didn’t your brother invite you to one at dinner?*

*I would’ve said yes if I didn’t have to contend with your stubbornness and my short temperament.*

*So now I’m at fault?*

*Can’t I blame it on your personality?*

*Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, Elisabeth.*

*Fine, you want me to say it? It’s your bloody fault.*

*Excellent dear, now do me a favor: crawl back into the grave.*

*And miss wiping the smile off your diamond crusted face? Never.*

*But you love diamonds. You can’t get enough of them and you can’t get enough of me. You’re like a stupid pup, always coming back for more.*

*More of what? Abuse?*

*Don’t hide it, Elisabeth. You weren’t shy last night.*

*Just like you to take everything sexually like a… a…*

*Oh, please do continue. You wanted to say slut, huh? The word hit a little too close to home for you? Sounds like what some of your cherished X-friends said of you not long ago?*

*Shut up!*

*Make me. I’m in your mind. I’m in your soul. You can’t shut me up.*

*Emma!*

*Don’t Emma me, I’m not the one who got us into this fine mess to-*

*EMMA!*

*What?!*

Betsy motioned to herself. *We’re back to our old selves.*

Emma’s turn to blink, and what would you know, no traces of Betsy lingered on her astral projection. She had her swagger back, her icy exterior back, and not to mention her sharpened tongue back too.

*Hmph,* the blonde sighed. *The pieces of us trapped in each other must have an affinity for the originals…*

*Are you ready to cut the link? I’ve had too much drama for one day.*

The gazebo came back into focus for both women. Neither could be happier--it was like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, and unlike the king’s men, Emma and Betsy succeeded. Their petty blow up aside, this encounter ended quite well, but there was a loose end.

“Betsy, I can still feel you.”

The British woman touched their mental bond. “It’s still strong too.”

Tumblers rolled around in Emma’s head until her mind clicked her free floating ideas into place. “The bond, it’s like the-”

“Stepford Cuckoos,” Betsy finished.

“So we’re still open books to each other.” And for not the first time, anxiousness simmered inside Emma. So what if Betsy was equally vulnerable? The White Queen never let her guard down to anyone. ANYONE.

“Even with someone who shared your mind?” Betsy noted dryly.

The cold retorted didn’t come out; instead, the genuine Emma made a rare cameo. “No point in denying it.”

Stretching and hearing the creaks in her neck, Betsy stifled a yawn. “Maybe we’ll be better off after a good night’s sleep.”

“Agreed,” nodded Emma. “I want to make one thing clear though,” she added as Betsy prepared to leave, “We respect each other’s privacy. We’re experienced telepaths, so it shouldn’t be difficult. Keep to your mind and I’ll keep to mine, which means no unsuspecting scanning of thoughts, manipulation of opinions, or-”

“Finishing of sentences,” Betsy said. She flashed a brief smile at Emma’s darkened expression. “I share your same concerns. Anything else?”

“Let’s meet again tomorrow. I want to try some exercises on us, some of the same ones I’ve been working with the Stepfords.”

“Well, you know where to find me.”

“Funny, Elisabeth.”

“Lighten up, Emma.”

“Not before you.”

They paused mid-conversation before it degenerated into another sniping match.

“This,” laughed Betsy, “looks like the beginning of a horrible relationship.”

“If we don’t kill each other first.” Rising to her feet, Emma gathered her decanter and remaining glass in her hands. Her gaze landed on the spilled Remy Martin. “Pity,” she lamented, “That was excellent cognac.”

*****************

Speaking of the Stepford Cuckoos, one Esme Stepford kept a sharp lookout as she slinked around the escalator. The sisters, accompanied by Sam Guthrie who took the place of Emma Frost (seeing how she was preoccupied and all), went to see a new Christmas movie. Of course, a stop by the mall was needed, what with presents to buy and sales to be had. While Celeste, Sophie, and Mindee prowled the shops, Phoebe--who admitted her crush on the mansion’s favorite down-home boy--spent an awful lot of time hanging with the flustered Sam. And in the shuffle, Esme slipped away.

Unlike her sisters, she had grander goals in mind. Forget the shopping and movie watching and boy chasing--pointless rubbish, all of it, and Esme never believed in pointless rubbish. Why live like a human when you were clearly much better? All her childhood she wished to be normal, but now, with a new cause guiding her, she shed her immature wants and turned to a higher calling, one which would free mutantkind from oppression.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a boy in a wheelchair rolling up to her. His distinctive size, big Macy’s bag, and none too stealthy disguise disgusted Esme, but what can you do when you’re a genius dealing with simpletons?

With sweetness belying her thoughts, the wayward Stepford spread her arms out and enveloped the boy. “Timmy!” she squealed in mock delight.

“Damn you,” the boy very quietly sneered.

Having garnered a series of warm smiles from passersby, Esme got behind the wheelchair and started pushing it toward the parking structure.

“Do you have my Christmas present, Toad?”

The disguised Toad patted the bag.

“Good. How many this time?”

“Last you for months. Get you a big Kick for a long time.”

“Idiot,” she hissed into his ear, “I said how many, not how long.”

“You so smart, then you count for yourself.”

Angrily, she snatched the bag from Toad and backed away. “Don’t you get lost on your way out.”

“And don’t ruin the plan,” he warned. “Master doesn’t like failure.”

Master… right. She was surrounded by idiots.

Before her sisters could get suspicious, Esme left Toad to his own devices and sought to rejoin her entourage. There was plenty to do and not enough time.

*****************

Lorna took a hit.

*****************

A shot glass thunked onto the counter. Shifting of a bottle, then amber liquid refilled the shot glass. Kitty stared at the whiskey for a split second before throwing it back and sighing at the warm burn.

“You drinking alone or can anyone else join?”

Kitty smiled at the newly arrived Rachel and plucked another glass from the cupboard. “If you feel like standing up to Logan’s wrath, then be my guest.”

The red head’s eyes bulged. “Oh no, you didn’t-”

“I did, but I’m considering this more of a borrowing with intent to compensate after a lengthy period of time.”

“You stole Logan’s stash,” she muttered. Surreptitiously, she glanced around the communal kitchen, saw no one else, and glared at Kitty. “Well?” she grinned, tapping her empty vessel, “What are you waiting for? Ol’ grizzle to find out?”

The two women giggled as they consumed the ill-gotten alcohol. There’d been enough crying, reminiscing, and arguing today for Kitty, and to just kick back and live, that brought a spark to her heart.

Well, that is before she thought about the act of kicking back and living. Illyana’s last wish, and here she was doing it, but whenever she thought about Illyana, those sad eyes and gasping last breaths tore her sails asunder.

How could she live when her best friend’s dying moments haunted her?

“Hey, Pryde,” said Rachel as she wiggled her empty glass, “Didn’t tell you to stop.”

Pulling herself out of the funk, Kitty kept the booze flowing but the laughter came in short supply. Rachel, who bumped into Kurt who talked with Logan, knew of Kitty’s unhappiness and was actually unhappy herself. Why, you ask?

“Kitty, am I your friend?”

The question out of left field brought the brunette’s mind back to earth. “Of course you are,” she replied, unhesitant.

“Then how come you didn’t tell me?”

Kitty didn’t like where this was going, so she played dumb... which despite everyone trying it, never worked and only made matters worse. “Tell you what?”

“About Illyana. About why you’re depressed. About why you’re drinking yourself stupid in the kitchen. Except for the drinking part, I had to hear everything from Kurt. Now you’re pretending like nothing happened? I thought we were closer than that, Kitty. If you need help, you know I’m here for you, no questions asked.”

“You can’t help me, Rachel. What’s the use of heaping my problems onto you? I love you too much to do that.”

“So you don’t even tell me?!” the red head snapped. “I’m watching a bottle of whiskey help you! How come I can’t?! I can telepathically dull the pain! I can make you forget!”

“It’s not personal-”

“Yes it is! It’s as personal as you can get because you personally told me nothing!”

Kitty let out an exasperated breath. Maybe the whiskey went to her head, but if Rachel wanted the truth, she could have it in spades. “This is exactly what I tried to avoid with you. You always get like this, Rachel, all yelling and shouting and none of it helps. You think throwing your powers around is going to fix everything, but it doesn’t. Say you do make me forget about Illyana. Next time someone mentions her, I’m going to get curious, ask around, break down, and end up even worse than before.”

“That won’t happen because-”

“NO. It will because I’m not the kind of person to let things go and I would never betray Illyana’s memory like that.”

“Then tell me how I can make things better.”

“YOU CAN’T!” screamed Kitty. When the outrage left her, she shrunk back into her seat and softly said, “I loved Illyana...”

“Everyone knows that.”

“No one knows I loved her,” the brunette sighed. “I didn’t want to just be friends.”

Rachel blinked, confused. “What do you mean you didn’t want.... Oh.”

Marvel Girl--the woman had a mind to move mountains, but when it came to the obvious, she fell on her frontal lobe.

“Why didn’t you tell her, Kitty?”

Did someone hear a brain hit the floor? Quick, clean up, aisle four!

“Hello? Peter? The rest of the X-Men?” groaned a frustrated Kitty. “And I’m sure Illyana never felt that way about me. I was her sister, not her girlfriend. Face it, the relationship would’ve awkward at best and apocalyptic at worst.”

“So.... you got with Peter because he was the next best thing?”

Just smearing the mess, wasn’t she? “How can you say that, Rachel?!”

“What? It’s a valid question. If you loved Illyana then why did you hang onto Peter? And Pete Wisdom too.” Rachel’s mind connected a bunch of random, madcap dots, fitting pieces where they shouldn’t have fitted. “Ah, wait, I get it now! You loved Illyana but couldn’t have her, so you convinced yourself you loved Peter. When Peter was gone, you used Pete as a substitute for Peter. Then, when Pete wasn’t close enough to Peter, you broke up with him!”

The loud slap of a forehead hitting the kitchen counter reverberated through the halls.

“Poor Kitty, that sounded painful. Here,” said Rachel, pouring her friend another shot, “I don’t think Logan will mind anymore. We had too much already.”

A mumbled thanks came up from under the pile of hair. As Kitty, head still down, fumbled for the drink, she latched onto something distinctly un-shot-glass-like. Felt more along the lines of Rachel’s dainty hand. Kitty peeked up to see a smiling red head.

“Rachel, where’s my whiskey?”

Almost heard gears grinding the way Rachel flipped dispositions. “If we hurry, we can catch Harry’s three-for-one!”

Something unsettling was the impetus behind that smile, but having imbibed so much of Logan’s whiskey, Kitty couldn’t put her finger on it. Why the sudden happy-happy mood? What happened to the last shot of booze? And Harry’s had three-for-ones tonight?

Rachel tightened her hand on Kitty’s and whisked them out the kitchen door without cleaning their mess. While drinking in and of itself never solved anything, overindulging with a friend tended to chase the bad memories away for an extended period of time. If nothing else, drinking with a friend usually resulted in good stories to tell.

Two hot, single, female, semi-depressed, emotionally unstable, half-inebriated, famous mutants hitting up a bar in the dead of night? Stuff legends were made of.

Logan walked into the kitchen and grimaced at the near-empty bottle mocking him from the counter. He sniffed the air and his frown deepened.

“Kid’s got some explainin’ to do.”

Like a tired father, he shoved the dirty glasses into the dishwasher and polished off the remains of his whiskey. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and chuckled.

“Least she didn’t find my good stuff.”

*****************

“Dodge.”

“Your left.”

“He’s going to kick.”

“Strike now.”

“Strike!”

“Watch out for the-”

Emma’s backside crashed onto the mat, jarring her senses and making stars appear. Her familiar enemy from the CQC program stood over her, that confident, cocky sneer plastered on his face. Even with Betsy barking advice from the sidelines, he railroaded her… three times in a row.

“Convinced?” puffed Emma, who couldn’t immediately find the strength to lift herself from the ground.

“So sue me for having faith in your abilities.”

Our heroines, thanks to their superior coordination (which was thanks to their buzzing mental link) beat the morning rush to the Danger Room and locked up the facility for themselves. Because of Betsy’s insistence that Emma’s fighting skills were adequate enough to stumble through the CQC program, they’d spent the better part of an hour testing the theory.

“I can’t believe none of me rubbed off on you,” Betsy shook her head as she helped Emma up.

“Why’s that?”

“Your attitude rubbed off on me. Just this morning I wanted to storm into Logan’s room and skewer him for lighting up his cheap cigar so bloody early.”

Rubbing her painful forearm, the blonde grimaced. “An eternal smoker like him should have better taste, but that’s beside the point.” She went to the Danger Room’s user panel and opened a new scenario, one with the raging assailants replaced by a pure white, seemingly continuous room. “I want to try exchanging skills under a controlled environment.”

Betsy eyed Emma dubiously. “Tempting fate again?”

“So says the self-admitted action junkie.”

“And where’s the adrenaline?”

“In the discovery and honing of one’s powers. We grow and we change--adapting should be one of the greatest thrills of all. We, my dear Betsy, have more than just our psychic rapport to explore.”

Did Emma just offer her guidance and support? I mean, it sounded remarkably like an offer, or was it more an open invitation? Stop Betsy, you’re not a giddy schoolgirl and Emma’s just being nice. Too nice. Un-Emma nice. Actually, more like un-White Queen nice since deep down, Emma was a fundamentally good person, but, well...

Never say Elisabeth Braddock looked a gift horse in the mouth.

Enough thinking. “Thank you,” she replied.

“I’m an educator,” the blonde said, shaking off the cobwebs, “My job is to help. And really, I should be thanking you for not only reminding me of that but also offering a hand to me. I’m… I’m… grateful.”

The uncomfortable silence made each woman shuffle about, filling the Danger Room simulation with ambient noise as they waited for enough time for the awkwardness to pass. Thoroughly satisfied after lowering the temperature, Emma gracefully sat herself down.

“Sit and we can begin.”

Not allowing much room for argument there.

“Another shortcoming of being an educator: we detest uncooperative pupils.”

Betsy arched her brow. “Didn’t we agree to keep out of each other’s heads?”

Behind that dispassionate face lurked a hint of amusement. A smile didn’t tug at her lips but her eyes did sparkle like diamonds. Her too rigid posture betrayed the bit of effort to control herself, and try as she might pass it off as her attempt at meditation, Betsy knew better. She knew Emma too well now.

“You... you...” Betsy couldn’t come up the proper description for Emma. On one hand, the slight was so subtle. On the other hand, Emma took pleasure in the small, unwitting victories.

She wasn’t a bitch, but she wasn’t a harmless jester either. Sheesh, talk about abrupt about face--grateful to grating in two seconds flat.

“Elisabeth, you’re thinking too hard. Open yourself and let the thoughts come to you.”

Aggravating, just absolutely aggravating. Who knew a playful Emma Frost could be more petty than the White Queen?

Before Emma could open her mouth again, Betsy silenced her with a glare. “Don’t say another word. Pretend we’re mature women here to learn about our powers.”

If Emma was a better person, she’d resist a parting jab, but she wasn’t. “What else were we doing?” she innocently asked.

Shying from the bait, Betsy sat across from Emma and adopted her meditative state. The blonde followed suit, and in no time, they once again met on the astral plane.

Emma seized the initiative. *We should start with your fighting abilities.*

*Admit it. You enjoyed kicking ass.*

*That I did, despite you putting it so crudely.* Slipping into her teaching persona, the blonde stilled herself and motioned for Betsy to come closer. *Now, if you’re done observing how I stay sane in this mutant madhouse, start giving an astral form to your martial arts skills.*

*I’m hardly a telepathic neophyte, Emma.*

*Then show me you’re not.*

Always a challenge with Emma. If not challenge, then a competition. What? Was the White Queen not good enough? All her life she’d proven the entire world wrong, and yet, every day, she woke up with a chip on her shoulder and a point to drive home.

Like clockwork, Emma caught on to Betsy’s thoughts. *The day you’re good enough is the day you die.*

*You need to learn to live in the moment and appreciate what you have.*

*So I should turn into a hedonistic daredevil like you?*

*Better than the guarded island you are now.* Betsy reached forward, but her hand met resistance mere inches from Emma’s face. *Just like I suspected,* she said, stepping away and folding her arms. *I was wondering why I couldn’t get a good read on you. Your attitude is why this exercise of yours won’t work. You’re sealed up tight and I’m not forcing my way in, however simple or difficult it might be. You think you can let your guard down for a split second, absorbed my abilities, and be on your merry way? What’s the point if you’re so defensive? For once in your life, let go and mean it. You’re in no position to help me if you don’t even trust me.*

*I’m keeping my proper distance-*

*If you’re keeping your distance, then you shouldn’t be reading my mind.*

*In case you didn’t know, you’re doing a wonderful job projecting your thoughts.*

*I’m keeping my mind open to you. You don’t have to peek. Are you saying you lack the self-control to not snoop around? You’re suppose to be the cold, indifferent one here, not me.* Betsy’s astral form shimmered, blurring her inner most memories into a montage on her body. *You’ve seen what I am and I’ve seen what you are. Where’s the problem? Why the hesitation? Every time we take a step forward, you’re reluctant to come along or you’re pulling back. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?*

*You’ve seen why-*

*Despite our bond, we are different people who cope differently. I understand why you’re unsure: everyone has somehow let you down or left you. The Hellfire Club, your family, the Hellions, even Generation X--all out of your life, and each void hurt because you cared too much. I understand why you’re guarded. I don’t have to like it though. I don’t have to believe it’s the best solution.*

*Suddenly you’re the one with all the answers when yesterday you wouldn’t even acknowledge me hammering at your mind?*

*Don’t you forget, I’m not the type to hide from adversity. I got that habit from you.* Though the mood stayed tense, Betsy managed a tight smile. *I seem to remember a very similar talk, only our roles were reversed.*

Did I mention Emma hated being goaded? Well, no, but you can imagine a cutthroat businesswoman, self-assured mutant, and the White Queen wouldn’t like being manipulated into someone else’s purposes. By nature, Emma was just too suspicious to accept help because, according to her experience, there always were strings attached. Sure, she appreciated Betsy’s actions, but when did Emma accept the offered help? Never, that’s when.

A certain exception named Charles Xavier came to mind, but he was a slithering, bald headed, two faced snake.

So here was Betsy, standing high and dry, doing her best impression of the Summers patriarch. If Emma was just a hair more impulsive, she would’ve shown the other woman a piece of her mind... after ejecting it out her ear with a well-placed blast of telepathy. Lucky for Betsy, Emma wasn’t (too) impulsive, and those words she spoke held some merit. Kind of pointless to be secretive around someone who knew all your secrets already. Conventional wisdom would say to make this work the best they could. Getting their state of being sorted out now was probably the best course of action.

Beat exploring new boundaries while battling a sworn enemy.

Exhaling and then relaxing herself, Emma willed her shields away. *Try to act like you know what you’re doing.*

*That’s the thing about this psychic rapport: you know when I’m acting.*

*Way to promote my peace of mind.*

*Emma, you’re stalling, and I don’t need powers to see that.*

Ignoring the rest of the blonde’s scathing chatter, Betsy proceeded to gather years of instruction and practice into... well, she didn’t know quite into what yet. She never had to visualize an individual facet of herself into her astral projection, and to make matters worse, she’d been without telepathy for ages, making her a tad bit rusty at all this.

Had to start somewhere though.

*Maybe deconstruction will work again,* she thought to herself. Seeping into Emma’s consciousness proved doable, but the trick this time was to package specific aspects of herself and send it to another. That detailed packaging required mental strength, a clear sense of self, and favorable conditions--guess which two Betsy didn’t have at the moment?

Frowning, Emma cleared her throat to get her companion’s attention. *Don’t sell yourself short. You’re one of the most talented telepaths on the face of this planet, and mark my words, you have the ability. This is the exact reverse of what we did yesterday.*

*Like a teacher lecturing a student,* muttered Betsy who rolled her eyes for good measure.

Speed. Her hallmark: lightning reflexes, nimble footwork, and frustrating elusiveness. Honed to near perfection, her body kept time with the deadliest of mutant fighters, two resounding defeats by Sabertooth and Vargas notwithstanding.

Stealth. Under the Mandarin and the Hand, she developed into an assassin, adding a killer instinct and a knack for surprises into her technique. Unexpected attacks, deceptive shifts in position, and knowledge of the battlefield made her into a hunting machine.

Freedom. In her youth, her non-existent fighting ability was the source of much self-derision. She swore she would be able to protect herself and augmented her old X-Men costume with clumsy body armor. After Kwannon... after Matsu’o... after Spiral... she didn’t need her armor anymore. Her body used to house her weapon: her mind. Afterwards, her body became the weapon, became one with her mind. She never told anyone, but she was ecstatic to get rid of her old outfit. Now, she felt free, like her body could finally achieve what her mind had been born with.

Speed. Stealth. Freedom. Three words embodying her fighting prowess. Years spent reveling in her craft, and through it all, her current and almost ever-present costume followed her. She had to hand it to Matsu’o--the lecherous bastard knew how make combat comfortable. She poured a carefully measured portion of herself into the isolated image. Her mind strained at the unnatural state she forced it into. She fought against the urge to reclaim her skills, expending more and more power and concentration to keep herself in her precarious position.

Meanwhile, Emma buffed her nails. An uninformed observer would’ve called her heartless, maybe even useless, but what Betsy did right now, she needed to do--and finish--herself. Triumph bred confidence, and as screwed up as she was, Betsy could use all the confidence in the world. Made tackling other issues like what her demonic body entailed, what happened to Jean’s telekinesis, and what else Belasco did to her less imposing.

Slightly less imposing. Very mildly, slightly less imposing.

Well, every bit of confidence helped, and Emma was all about confidence. Act like you know what you’re doing, and ninety-nine percent of the time, everything will fall into place. As for the other one percent? That’s when the mutant powers came into play.

*Emma,* said Betsy, straining, *Come closer. I want to try something.*

One Elisabeth Braddock didn’t get the memo about acting and peace of mind. Mental note: rake Psylocke over coals tomorrow if there is another tomorrow. Emma saved the rest of her cynicism because Betsy seemed too engrossed in whatever she did to be properly infuriated.

Never say Emma wasn’t the observer: she hated wasting her best barbs on the non-listening types.

Incidentally, Betsy didn’t check for compliance--she assumed it. “Whatever she did” turned out to be her attempt at modifying Emma’s exercise: instead of transferring abilities, why not imprint them? A sort of share-and-share-alike mentality never did harm. In Betsy’s estimation, Emma might not want to give back her fighting skills in a timely fashion, and this copying was a superior option to simply going without.

And after yesterday’s session in the Danger Room, martial arts fascinated Emma to no ends. The blonde was giddy like a girl in a toy store... or like the White Queen with phenomenal cosmic powers in an itty-bitty living space.

Ok, mind on matter and no more Disney thoughts.

For her part, Emma caught the tail end of Betsy’s tangent and hesitated. One assumed things when the other party envisioned you doing your best impression of a flexing genie, and none of those “things” were good. Suppressing her reaction to vehemently protest, Emma took a leap of faith and edged toward Betsy’s astral form.

Gloved hands cradled Emma’s cheeks. Every digit provided an experience in their own, subtle twitches and caresses melting her tension away. Crackles of psychic energy broke the silence, but those small disturbances only registered as pleasant, ambient noise.

*Are you ready, Emma?*

Emma almost--just almost--purred in delight. *If you don’t stop now I might come.*

The hand exert more force and jolted the blonde awake. Brown eyes bored into her, and she felt something changing in the root of her self. Panic set in, and flashes from traumatic times--like when Mastermind literally shutdown her consciousness--spurred her into action.

But Betsy’s voice cut through the haze. *EMMA!*

The blonde paused and tried to re-center herself.

*Trust me,* Betsy said soothingly, *I won’t hurt you.*

*Do you know what you’re doing?*

*Yes.* Crisp. Clear. Confident.

Sensing no uncertainty, Emma squashed the last of her reservations and opened herself to Betsy. Ripples of change traveled through her mind as she made room for her companion. Went surprisingly easy, and before long, Betsy had a solid connection to all things Emma. With Emma’s help, Betsy calmed the mental chaos and checked herself once more: the manifestation of her fighting skills held.

Little by little, she etched a copy into Emma’s psyche.

She painted with broad strokes. She chiseled with precision. She sculpted like a master. She recreated a part of herself while avoiding damaging Emma. And Emma silently marveled at the work. Lessons she never had bled into her. Observations she never would’ve made leapt at her. Her understanding of leverage, position, and concentration grew, her mind suddenly applying them in ways she hadn’t imagined.

Betsy moved like she fought, and Emma couldn’t help but give a wiry smile. So fleeting her touch, so delicate her actions, so subtle her motions--she resembled a ghost. As Betsy’s work took shape, the blonde felt her knowledge growing, her experiences expanding, her mind changing until finally, pushed to exhaustion, Betsy put the last touch on her masterpiece and left.

Her astral form fizzled back into her body and Emma followed suit, recovering just in time to stop Betsy from smashing her face against the Danger Room floor.

No heavy breathing from Betsy. No sweating either. Just a bunch of moaning and groaning.

Emma couldn’t help but say, “I was that good, darling?”

“Have you no sympathy for the dead?” Betsy grumbled while clutching her aching head.

Gathering the woman in her arms, Emma began the slow and steady journey to the other’s room. Emma even eased the pain by dulling receptors in Betsy’s mind. “To bed you go, Elisabeth,” she encouraged. “Try to get some rest.”

*****************

Dane Whitman, or the being formerly known as Dane Whitman, the Black Knight, sat before his laptop. Already his unknown benefactor had been very helpful, but tonight, he needed more. Time ran in short supply. His enemies would find out soon about his new state of being; that is, if they hadn’t found out already. He closed his eyes to breathe in the underlying chaos.

So close to the nexus... the power sung in his bones. Lord Belasco counted on him.

The chat box finally popped up, requesting a voice conference. He accepted and put on his headset to converse with this knowledgeable mortal, _AttrioR_.

The customary mechanical voice greeted Dane. “Do you require my services?”

“You told me the portal was in Manhattan, but I need to know more.”

“Patience,” the person urged, “Timing is of the essence. Other pieces are just now coming together.”

“I don’t care about your other pieces! Where is the portal?”

“Temper, temper, Mr. Whitman. One could easily misconstrue that you are not grateful for all I have done thus far. Like most, I do not appreciate ungratefulness.”

Foolish mortal. For now, Dane stayed his hand, but when Lord Belasco returned to earth, he would hunt down this arrogant peddler of information like a dog and tear him limb from limb.

“Forgive me,” Dane lied, “My hastiness gets the better of me again.”

“Make sure it does not when the time comes.”

“So where is the portal?”

“You will know when I tell you.”

“But Lord Bel-”

“Lord Belasco will get what he wants. Remain in Manhattan--that is all you need to do. I assume you still have the pendant?”

“Do you take me for an incompetent fool?”

“Yes.”

_AttrioR_ logged off.

*****************

“Sugah, which dress is better?”

Remy looked up to behold a naked Rogue holding a red silk number on her left and a black one with a plunging neckline on her right. After a moment’s consideration, Remy’s trademark grin made another fabled appearance.

“Why chere, da one in da middle look da best.”

“Remy!” she squealed, turning beet red. “Be serious! Kurt wants us to look good at dinner tonight!”

Remy scratched his head, mildly confused. “Dinner? Where we goin’?”

“Kurt wants us ta treat Betsy ta Harry’s. Sheesh, where were you this morning? The blue elf practically told everyone in the mansion.”

Oh, he knew perfectly where he was this morning: amongst the trees sneaking a smoke. Couldn’t say that out loud since Rogue hated his nasty habit, but honest, he tried to quit. And Rogue was just about putting two and two together when the phone in their room rang.

Before the first ring even stopped, Remy had already answered, “’lo, Remy here.”

The brunette stomped her feet impotently and went back into the bathroom to get dressed. Then, if all was well, she’d give the self-proclaimed “t’ief” a piece of her mind.

“Thank God I found you,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “There’s trouble back home.”

Remy’s eyes grew wide. “Bel? Slow down, chere, you scarin’ po’ Remy half ta death.”

“You should be scared,” replied Bella Donna Boudreaux, Gambit’s ex-wife and his viceroy to the New Orleans Unified Guild, “Don’t know who, but a lunatic wants you. Came into a Guild meeting and demanded you show your face. Said every midnight you’re not here, he’s going to kill someone in the Guild. Been two days, Remy, and two people are dead.”

“De entire Guild can’t find him?”

“Wouldn’t be calling you if we could.”

Remy chewed on his lower lip. He raced through the numerous ways to get back to New Orleans before settling on the simplest method. “Bel, go find Quiet Bill. Tell him I be waiting for him at the landing up north. He’d know what I mean.”

Bella Donna let out a breath of frustration, and the crash on the other end of line probably meant another neat trinket on her desk had met an early demise. “Hurry, Remy. The Guild’s starting to get nervous and you know how they can be.”

“Relax, chere. I be dere, I promise. Now, de quicker you find Quiet Bill, de quicker I can be dere.”

“What if we can’t find him?”

“If he’d not here in two hours, I’ll find m’own way to Nawlins.”

They said their goodbyes, and Remy sprung into action before the line went dead. By the time Rogue was fully dressed, he’d slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and was searching for his collapsible staff.

Wordlessly, she opened the drawer which held his shirts, picked up his weapon (which hid between a t-shirt and a vest) , and flipped it to him. He caught it and shoved it into his trench coat in one smooth motion. Eyes softening with concern, Rogue asked, “You need help, Remy?”

“I’ll call if I need you, Roguey. Dis be Guild business ‘n all.”

“Just cuz yo’ crazy guild ask you then you can’t bring no help?”

“Lots ‘o folks down there don’t ‘preciate outsiders,” Remy patiently explained. “If it comes down to help from outsiders or death, most of da time, they choose death. I ain’t like dem, but I ain’t gonna let dem kill demselves with foolish pride neither. You show up there wit me, de Guild probably wouldn’t want my help. If I can’t do nothing ‘bout dis crazy man, den I call you. You have my word.”

Like so many times before, they embraced, each silently wishing the other safety. Life, as they’d found out, was never assured for an X-Man.

Rogue kissed her gloved fingers and pressed them against Remy’s lips. “Don’t do nothing stupid, ya hear?”

“Love you, Roguey,” he smiled as he strode for the door.

“Remy?” she said, making him turn around. “Don’t smoke durin’ your trip.”

His boisterous mirth belied the grim task he went to face. Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, he fished the pack of Camels out of his pocket, crumpled them up, and side armed them into the trashcan beside the bed.

“See ya, chere.”

*****************

Sage watched Gambit’s motorcycle peel out of the mansion driveway. One suspect eliminated: two remaining, and coincidentally enough, two days to continue her investigation.

“How the hell did you get over there?!”

Bobby Drake’s sudden exclamation pulled her attention from the window and back toward the television. When he found her in the rec room sitting by herself and not using the big screen, he nearly jumped for joy, scrambling to claim some valuable “X-Box action.” Offhandedly, he asked if Sage wanted to play, and she surprised him by accepting. The game: Halo. The score: 31 to 2, advantage Sage. Despite playing on autopilot and her mind being miles away on the net, Tessa thoroughly humiliated the resident “videogame god” on his own turf in a level of his choosing.

To think, ten minutes ago, he shook his head and said, “Fine, your funeral.”

Unfortunately for him, her exhaustive firearms expertise combined with her computer-like mind ensured a smashing victory; however, she had to admit he had a good amount of skill. Despite gaming being one those pointless ventures, she respected such a devotion to honing one’s craft, especially when it pertained to the digital arena.

Another explosion engulfed Bobby’s side of the screen. Required him 5.3 seconds to process his defeat, and when he did, the controller went hurling out of his hands, eventually skittering on the carpet and thumping into the cherry wood entertainment center.

“I give up,” he said, head bowed.

Recently, Bobby’s mood fluctuated, a clear derivation from his lackadaisical, often scatter-brained self. According to Tessa’s current and very flimsy observations, he was either on the verge of extreme anger or pitiful tears... maybe even laughter. And if there was one thing that bothered Tessa, it was a question mark, of which Bobby Drake, Iceman, founding X-Man, was now one. Question marks were unpredictable, leading to randomness, leading to the unfurling of carefully constructed plans.

Question marks had to be rectified, and if at all possible, changed to advantages for the greater good.

“You are cold, Robert.”

The man lifted himself long enough to half-sneer, half-glare at Tessa. “Where do you think a name like Iceman came from?”

“Obviously from an unoriginal source,” she quipped, the biting reply momentarily befuddling Bobby. “I find it curious that the air around you is twenty degrees cooler than the room’s temperature. You have not activated your transformation.”

Hands rubbing his forehead as he flopped against the couch, interjections of disbelief spilled out of his mouth like clockwork. Tessa left the Oh Gods, Shits, I can’t believe this, and why nows alone, instead fixing her unwavering, analytical stare on Bobby. They all succumb to her look whether through fear, curiosity, or plain stupidity.

Bobby had enough when he’d felt certain Tessa’s eyes were stripping away every molecule in his body and observing them one by one.

Angrily, he pulled his Def Leppard sweater off to revel quite a sight. Most of his chest resembled his “iced up” state but his sides and stomach were still flesh. Ice seemed to be invading his torso, taking over sliver by sliver. The areas where flesh met ice resembled a corpse’s complexion, bluish blood vessels ominously bulging through while the skin appeared dead. Tessa’s sunglasses magnified the border regions and found skin freezing, preparing to follow the surrounding cells into ice.

She knew the diagnosis. She found the root of his mood swings. She could help him. She had a use for him

“These are signs of a secondary mutation,” she noted, shifting her glasses slightly.

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Bobby sarcastically remarked while pulling his sweater back on. Annoyance filtered into his speech. “Before you ask, no, I can’t change it back. Trust me, if I could, I would.”

Now this attitude came more in line with Sage’s model of Robert Drake. He always used humor or sarcasm to dull the edge of adversity, and this apparently permanent transformation qualified as adversity of the sharpest kind. In fact, he was quoted as saying he felt “luckier than a Metallica roadie for being able to march my rear end through a Friends of Humanity rally without being hung!” Losing his camouflage, especially so late in life, wrecked not only his connection with normal people, but also his self-image, his comfort, and his illusion of actually being normal.

And she noticed his silence about it too. Excellent.

“We should discuss this in private,” said Tessa as she stood up. “My room is just upstairs.” She didn’t wait for him to follow, and in fact, would’ve been disappointed had he jumped to his feet. It wouldn’t have been consistent with her projections of the situation.

As she sauntered past him, she swayed her hips enough to catch his attention but not enough to be scandalous. Her black leather pants hugged her curves and the lights reflecting off the shiny material produced an all-around arousing image. Left, right, left, right she repeated her sway, making it appear as if her exaggerated movements were the norm.

She stopped at the door, put a hand on the frame, and turned her head just so her left eye peeked out from the corner of her glasses.

“Coming?”

Only then did Bobby scramble off the couch.

*****************

Lorna took a hit.

*****************

Kurt Wagner, better known as Nightcrawler, was a man of faith. All too often, his brush with the unusual, extraordinary, and miraculous made him question his devotion, but he remained steadfast in his belief of a Divine Plan. Even cosmic entities like Galactus, the Beyonder, and--dare he say it?--the Phoenix needed an origin. Additionally, he liked to think they needed a purpose too.

So when Betsy came back from the dead, he didn’t question. He embraced the miraculous fortune and went about his business of welcoming a friend’s return home. With Kitty and Hank also in the mansion, why, this was a call for celebration!

Well, a toned down celebration at least. Rumors throughout the Xavier Institute traveled fast and the newest details painted a trio of very touchy, and in the case of Hank and Betsy, very confused people. Paraphrasing Jean, none of them needed a stimulus overload, so the plan about a mansion-wide surprise party gave way to a more practical, no pressure invitation to an old favorite: Harry’s Hideaway. The moody could brood and boisterous could chortle, but Kurt banked on good ol’ Harry’s (with a little help from his food and brews) bringing out the best in everyone.

He’d spread the news to all the appropriate sources, and now, he approached his final invite: Frau Braddock herself. Really, he saved her for last not because of malice but because she’d sequestered herself in the Danger Room the entire morning with (and this name sent a tremor up his spine) Emma Frost. The vile woman was capable of anything, and he witnessed many of the most vicious mind games she’d played. Ok, Kurt was a forgiving man, though he was far from naïve. People could change, but the White Queen, who steadfastly maintained her less than personable demeanor and questionable morals, didn’t show signs of change. To Kurt, that stubbornness was grounds enough to sever ties with her.

The Professor thought otherwise.

This was the same woman who led the Hellfire club. This was the same woman who ruined the lives of young mutants. This was the same woman who murdered her own sister. This was the same woman who was most likely responsible for Sean Cassidy’s current dangerous behavior. What could the Professor possibly see to allow her into the X-Men?

Kurt sighed. Old prejudices were hard to ignore. He’d be more apt to turn the other cheek to Emma if he was certain she wouldn’t ignore his cheek altogether and plunge a knife into his heart... then twist it before shoving it deeper into his newfound chest cavity... then shove it in further so the handle of the knife got covered in visceral gore.

However, such was an issue for another time.

He had a party to plan.

“Oh Frau Braddock,” he called out in a sing songy voice while he sauntered closer to Betsy’s room, “Could you spare me some of your precious- Eh?”

No, Nightcrawler didn’t want any “Eh”s, Canadians, or Wolverines, bub. Being the private type, Betsy kept her door closed (if not locked) at all times: today she’d left it ajar. Maybe she was still moving furniture back from storage, but his hyper-keen hearing revealed a single person’s quiet, rhythmic breaths. Wanting to check on his friend, Kurt nudged the door open and poked his head in.

There Betsy peacefully lay on her large bed, blankets covering everything but an arm and her head. Her room was in slight disarray but looked to be approaching immaculate. Katanas hung on the wall, vases and sculptures sat in display cases or cardboard boxes, Japanese lamps remained unlit, and an opened dresser overflowed with clothes. Very normal, nothing out of place, except for Emma Frost.

Seated on an executive leather chair at Betsy’s bedside, the blonde had her feet propped up and a thick wad of papers, topped off by an uncapped fountain pen, across her lap. One arm perched on the chair’s armrest but the other arm extended to Betsy. To Kurt’s surprise, the women’s hands touched, and not just touched, more like wove together in a tapestry of fingers. The scene would’ve been endearing if he didn’t notice Betsy’s lack of breath.

Surprise turned to outrage as he automatically assumed the worst. “Get away from her!”

The yell jostled Emma awake. Student essays and one expensive Mont Blanc pen crash landed even before her eyes fluttered open. Years of hard living and sudden Sentinel attacks forced her into action, and she tried to defend herself... which would’ve been the smart idea if she wasn’t lying so awkwardly. Pushed by her scrambling, the chair wheeled out from under her, leaving no support for her torso. Precariously balanced, Emma’s rear end bottomed out and pulled the rest of her body along with it for the ride. She averted the embarrassing fall when Betsy’s cat-like reflexes took control.

Using the bed as spring, Emma threw her hips up, planted her hands on the ground, and back flipped. She’d overshot the chair, but her battle instincts prompted her to swing her legs out, effectively rocketing the seat at Kurt. Reflexes none too shabby himself, Nightcrawler hurdled the projectile and charged forward while Emma landed onto Betsy’s nightstand in a sitting position.

Kurt left no time for the blonde to recover. He’d seen Emma’s devastating telepathic powers at work and didn’t want to give her any opportunity to get into his mind. He led with his fist to score a quick hit and end the encounter; Emma would have none of it and ducked the attack. Using her shoulder, she upended him and let his own force guide him into the wall. She quickly jumped away to put distance between them.

From beneath covers, a groggy Betsy popped her head out and shouted, “Kurt! Emma! Stop!”

While Emma stayed in her fighting stance, Kurt--stunned and slack-jawed--tumbled to the floor and stared at Betsy. “You’re alive,” he gasped. “I thought Emma...”

He trailed off but a cursory scan of his mind told Betsy all she needed to know. “She’s been nothing but helpful, Kurt. It’s,” she stopped to search for the right word before settling on, “complicated. I’m not hurt.”

She glanced at Emma. Tense fingers, infinitesimally squinted eyes, and impassive face signaled the blonde’s readiness to protect herself, and by psychic attack if need be. *I said stop, Emma,* Betsy repeated over their rapport. She returned her gaze to Kurt but kept the mental conversation going. *He was too gung ho, but you’re not doing yourself favors by looking like you’re going to turn his brains to jelly.*

*Next time someone assaults you, let’s see how calm you’re going to be.*

*Bloody hell, I said stop already!*

*Stop what? Protecting myself from random X-Men attacks? This proves how little they think of me and I’m returning the favor.*

Arguing with Emma was like jabbing yourself in the eye with an ice pick: painful, pointless, and stupid. Betsy hoped for more luck by talking to the mostly jovial, devil-may-care Nightcrawler.

“Kurt, could you apologize to Emma?”

He’d messed up, plain and simple. He assumed too much and let his personal prejudices cloud his judgment. True, Emma earned his distrust, but Kurt Wagner was never one to defend clearly wrong actions, least of all when he perpetrated those actions. Hypocrisy never set well with him.

He picked himself up and swallowed his pride (What remained of it anyway.). “My apologies to both of you,” he uttered, voice shaded by embarrassment, “Especially to Emma. My reaction was unacceptable.”

*What a pathetic understatement.*

*Emma!*

*Oh please, I didn’t project my thoughts.*

Exchange unheard, Kurt continued, “How about I buy a round for you ladies tonight at Harry’s? Let me regain some of my dignity, no?”

Betsy happily nodded at the proposition. “We’ll be glad to come. What time?”

*Suddenly you’re making decisions for me?*

*Pipe down. You want the others to trust you? Go out with them more often. It’s called bonding. Try it, you’ll be surprised.*

A quick, nearly imperceptible flash of hurt blitzed Emma, but she covered it up well. Betsy only caught the tail end--all she saw was the blonde’s old student, Everett, bloodied.

Encouraged by the enthusiasm, Kurt puffed away and reappeared at the door. “Sevenish,” he drawled, leaning against the frame. Then with a touch of impishness, he added, “Wear something... appropriate.”

“Kurt, it’s Harry’s. A barrel would be appropriate.”

The man had the audacity to wink. “My point exactly, Frau Braddock. Auf wiedersehen.”

And poof he went, the unpleasant smell of brimstone the only sign of his departure. Finally, Emma relaxed herself. Shaking her head in exasperation, she stooped down to retrieve her spilled papers. Sensing the discontent, Betsy crawled out of bed to lend a hand and smooth over Emma’s mood.

*If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.*

*No, no,* Emma sighed, *You were right.*

Betsy failed to sniff out traces of the blonde’s bitterness, instead finding uncharacteristic defeat. Not like her to deflate from queen bitch to wounded poodle in seconds. Few topics cut through her armor so quickly, and Betsy wasn’t sure any of them were up for discussion.

*Classic X-Men procedure never to leave others alone,* said Emma, fingering Betsy’s thoughts right away, *You know, I have my bouts with lucidity as well. Can’t I be self-critical without having it become an earth shattering revelation? Any shrewd entrepreneur acknowledges flaws and fixes them. We exude arrogance, but our minds work on another level. You’re getting a behind the scenes look, so just back away and enjoy the thought process.*

Amazing how Emma turned an entire playing field on its head and to her advantage. Too bad Betsy wasn’t backing off. *Don’t close up on me, Emma. This is about more than Kurt assuming the worst. You’re still not over Genosha, Generation X, or the Hellions. What I said about trust, that made you think, didn’t it? Made you think that maybe if you’d been more trustworthy you could’ve made a difference in their fates. Made you think that you were never good with trust, placing it in people who only betrayed you like your sister.*

*Am I like a broken toy to you?* Emma snarled. *Do you feel the urge to fix me? Do us both a favor and shove it!*

By now, the two of them had gathered all the papers. Anyone walking in (or walking by, seeing how the door was wide open) would’ve caught them crouched on the ground engaged in an intense staring match. Emma’s mental shouts slid off of Betsy, hostility and annoyance going unrecognized.

Betsy narrowed her eyes. *Did I imagine that sudden stab of regret and Monet holding Everett’s bloody corpse?*

A loud thunder crack of a slap rang out. The slapper: Emma. The slapped: Betsy. *I told you to keep to your own mind.*

How hard was the slap? Betsy’s teeth numbed. *Then ignore what’s obviously eating away at you? Wait until you’re so thoroughly consumed by your demons that you won’t even accept help, much less acknowledge your helplessness? Sure, I’ll stop bothering you, just because I want to watch you spiral into a manic depression while we have this incredibly strong mind link on. Then maybe I’ll find the will to throw myself off a building and see if this brand, spanking new demon body dies like the rest.*

*Laying on the sarcasm much?*

*We’re stuck together, and I’d much rather we acknowledge that than dance around it whenever we’re uncomfortable. I’m not asking you to pour your life into my hands, but I am asking you to have a grain of faith in me. If today and yesterday were any evidence, we’ll be needing each other.*

*I trust you-*

*Then do it, don’t say it.*

That tore the last of Emma’s restraint. Geez, wasn’t this old material? *Are you stuck on repeat?* demanded Emma as she bit her lower lip, *We’ve had this conversation before. Look, I accept my misgivings about trust and I agree we have to pull together if only to keep ourselves sane. We need time. Time to find out what’s going on, time to change, time to adapt. Where are you not getting that change takes time? What else do you want from me? I’m making my goddamn best effort!*

*Then trust me!*

*I am! I trust you with my memories, my powers, and my mind! Why else would I let you romp around in my head? Why else would I let you recall my past, things I haven’t told another soul? Anyone else, I’d have them mind wiped and shipped off to be at the Hellfire Club’s mercy.*

*Why won’t you-*

Emma held her hand to stop Betsy. *There’s some things I’m not ready to face, and let’s leave it at that.* Her attitude held no room for argument, but there was something else under her tone, something she didn’t want to let out. *I’m going to go to my room and finish grading these papers before our... engagement with Mr. Wagner.*

*Engagement? Emma, this is a drink at a bar. You know, simple, low key affair with few people?*

*Haven’t you noticed that nothing is ever simple around here?*

*****************

Isa Hayes lived his life on what he dubbed “scientific time.” Whenever he made mention of the term, others cocked their heads in confusion. Pity, those impatient masses who always wanted everything “Now! Now! Now!” couldn’t possibly understand the scope of a scientist’s vision, much less his sense of time. A researcher’s work stretched on for years, even lifetimes, and such increments of time--seconds, minutes, days--were simply too small to acknowledge. Keeping close tabs on the clock was like pawing for insignificant figures, like searching for exact numbers when rounded ones would do.

Sad.

Thus, for Doctor Hayes, “soon enough” meant weeks. A month. Two months, tops, but nothing less than a week. He didn’t expect “soon enough” to be one day after he’d vacated Frost Enterprises for the final time. By God, he’d just finished his tv dinner (and the newest episode of Battlestar Gallatica) when the phone rang. The caller? His mysterious benefactor.

“Come alone to this address,” the person demanded, all sounding much like those conspiracy movie masterminds. “You have thirty minutes and the clock is ticking. Don’t grow a brain, John.”

Well, said benefactor didn’t exactly say those words and he sounded much more sinister, but Isa wasn’t big on the details. It was enough that this sequence of events reminded him of an action-thriller he’d seen on the television. Speed or Commando or Scream or Ben-Hur or something.

The allure of his overactive imagination and the promise of his research returned led Isa to putter around Chicago in his Crown Victoria, aimlessly searching for the aforementioned address which he’d scribbled on the back of his hand. Between steering, dim lighting, and nervousness, finding one 1275 Bellcrest Road proved a challenge.

Wait, or was that 7215 Bellcrest Road? 1215 Bellerest Road? 7275 Beuerest Road?

Damn ballpoint pen.

After an hour of wandering, those ubiquitous AM/PM and 7/11 stores looked more and more attractive. His stomach rumbled; his throat ran dry; his windshield needed cleaning. He was late already, so being later wouldn’t hurt. One quick stop, just one quick visit to the restroom, a hurried bite to eat, a rapid grab of nachos for the road, a fast fill-up, and wow, even enough time to squeegee the windshield.

In a blazing twenty minutes, Doctor Isa Hayes, with tummy bloated and radio rocking, was back on the road. He was stopped at a signal light and in the middle of Hotel California when a beautiful (read: busty) woman tapped on his window. Of course, when lost in the middle of a barren, downtown Chicago intersection, the intelligent thing to do would be to roll down the window and see what the stranger wanted.

Naturally, Isa did the intelligent thing.

Ignoring his disturbing smile and obvious ogling, the woman leaned down (cue cleavage shot) and asked in a sultry voice, “You Doctor Hayes?”

“Uh huh, yes, that would be me, Doctor Isa Hayes, yup.”

Her fist careened into his jaw, and since he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, the good doctor tumbled face first into the passenger seat, his feet sticking up in the air and the rest of him very unconscious. Shaking her head in dismay, the woman slipped into the car, rolled up the window, and drove when the light turned green.

If anyone bothered to look, they would’ve seen the woman’s body ripple away, in its stead blue skin and shocking red hair. Mystique drew her tranquilizer gun from her holster and fired a dart into Hayes, just to make sure he was out. With not a small amount of distain, the radio got turned off.

She flipped out her cell phone and dialed a memorized number. When she heard the line pick up, she said, “I’ve got him.”

“Oh my, oh my, what took you so long?”

“He probably got lost. I found him at a stoplight a block away from the meeting place.”

“Astounding, Mystique. You are truly worth every penny of your services.”

“Easily impressed, aren’t you?”

“My fellow sister in blue, I don’t ask for much, only the world on a platter. But before I get too off-base, why don’t you drive the good doctor back here and I can continue with my plan?”

*****************

Kuan-Yin Xorn’s attempt at meditation failed again. Out of frustration, he pounded his fists against the carpet of his room.

“Concentrate,” he chided himself. Ever since coming to the X-Men, his spirit frayed, almost as if his existence was coming undone. He turned a blind eye to his uncertainty, convincing himself it all had to do with his homesickness. What began as a nagging, empty feeling spiraled out of control, progressing to where he’d lose track of time or find himself forgetting what he did during the day.

No one else commented on his plight, so he suspected nothing too out-of-the-ordinary occurred whenever he had those peculiar blackouts. Like today, for instance--from early morning till late afternoon, he had no idea where he went. A trip to the infirmary half an hour ago confirmed his good health. Nothing should’ve been wrong with him, but yet, something was.

He had difficulty focusing. His body occasionally tingled as if submerged in a rushing river. He felt... off, but why he had no clue. He didn’t feel comfortable asking the others for help--didn’t know them long enough, didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to seem like a bother.

Kuan-Yin Xorn was a healer for Christ’s sake! The ultimate insult wasn’t his inability to find the problem, but rather that it was his body that was afflicted. What a cruel predicament...

Which became even crueler when his entire being seized up, convulsed, and eventually curled into a fetal position. Screaming wasn’t an option: the massive onslaught of pain made every sound die in his throat. His hand pressed against the sides of his helmet as if the simple act could drive away the hurt. His muscles tightened to such a point that he’d thought they’d all snap like overstretched rubber bands.

Slowly, the pain subsided; the changes in his body type didn’t. Some muscles remained tetanized. He stood a little taller. His widened shoulders, straightened back, and broadened chest conveyed an arrogance he didn’t formerly possess.

Like so, Kuan-Yin Xorn was no more, victim of a Jekyll-to-Hyde transformation. Unbeknown to the X-Men, their newest member had very quietly assumed the mantle of Magneto, Master of Magnetism.

*****************

“Have a drink,” she said.

“It’ll be a small affair,” she said.

“Try bonding,” she said.

Bullshit.

Emma and Betsy arrived together, the blonde playing the “You spoke for me so there’s no way I’m showing up on time or alone” card. Lucky her too because this supposed low key apology round courtesy of Nightcrawler turned out to be a surprise pow wow. Imagine Emma’s face if she’d showed up alone expecting a quick meet-n’-leave.

And who was suppose to be the precognitive one here?

From across the room and surrounded by Storm, Rogue, Kurt, Jean, Logan, and Bishop, Betsy flashed Emma a grin, jiggled her pint of Guinness, and mentally laughed, *Just enjoy yourself!*

Easy for her to say. The rest of world wasn’t doing their poignant best to ignore her or give her their approximation of a death glare. Those who weren’t fawning over Betsy hung out in little groups of their own--Alex and Lorna, a plastered Kitty with Rachel and Shan, so forth. Emma... well, she got stuck sipping a dry martini at the four person kiddy table.

“Geez Frosty, what crawled up your ass and froze?”

Jubilation Lee. What a joy to be thrown in a lot with her.

“Jubilee! Ah don’t think Ms. Frostappreciates that kinda talk!”

Ahh, ever sweet Paige Guthrie. Pity her pleasurable companionship was always joined by one aforementioned, Asian girl.

Interesting thought though. “How did you girls get into Harry’s?”

“Thank the elf boy for that one,” Jubilee replied as she took a break from inhaling her soda. “Got in before the night crowd came. If ya haven’t noticed, it’s Harry’s Bar AND Grill,” she said, winking, “Us not quite twenty-one types get free sodas.”

“How... quaint.”

The fourth member of their “kiddy table” club? An out of place Henry McCoy sporting none of his exuberance or verbosity.

“Yo,” said Jubilee, poking at Beast with her straw, “Papa bear, you home? Starin’ at your drink ain’t gonna make it go away. Unless of course...”

She made a shifty attempt at snaring Hank’s beer which Emma stopped. The blonde’s free hand moved, flashing from her side and smacking Jubilee’s wrist.

“Ouch!” yelped the girl, rubbing the angry-looking welt, “Since when did you move like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?”

“Since this morning,” Emma bristled, the two once more falling into their old student-teacher dynamic.

“Haha, very funny Frosty. Have anything to do with Betts lockin’ you up in the Danger Room for hours?”

“Digging for rumors already?” Emma put on her Cheshire cat grin, the same one which infuriated Jubilee to no ends by managing to be insulting, manipulative, and suggestive all at once. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Jubilation.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “It’s Jubilee, and no Frosty, not everything I hear gets blabbered to everyone else. Can’t I just care about my ex-teach?”

“I’m touched,” Emma remarked, bringing an almost imperceptible glimmer of mischievous hope in Jubilee’s face, “but I’m not fooled.”

Stomp. There went that glimmer of hope.

Since Frost was her usual no-fun self, Jubilee returned to the dejected Hank. According to Wolvie who heard from Kurt who talked to Storm who ran into Jean, the big blue machine was none too pleased at himself or Betts. Death threats, kidnapping, built up angst--pretty heavy stuff, and all of it festering. With Betts living la vida loca, poor ol’ Hank didn’t have anywhere else to go, and really, no one to talk to.

Which reminded her. “Hayseed,” said Jubilee, elbowing her friend in the side, “Where’s your wingman?”

“At a business meetin’. He turned down Kurt this mornin’.”

Well, more power to him. The way those two split up, he probably didn’t want to be seeing Betts anyways, especially with Paige around. Too bad because Hank could’ve used Warren’s company, but Jubilee wasn’t about to let her favorite (yes, favorite, even more so than Kurt) fuzzy friend get all down on himself.

To coax a reaction, Jubilee struck an odd pose--one involving Paige and Emma’s white, leather jacket--and said in a bubbly voice, “Gimme a smile, Hank!”

He couldn’t mask the strain in his smile. Along with the nostalgia Harry’s brought back were the broken feelings over his departure from the X-Men. There weren’t any overt displays of unfriendliness, but man was there a wave of discomfort. Unlike Kitty who stayed in touch, Hank severed all ties, a gesture some considered excessive. Kitty also parted on better terms, a point she hammered home whenever they got a chance to talk.

Six months... not a long time but enough for the world to move on. The X-Men moved on, just like they always did. Faces--a few new, most old--looked different to him and looked differently at him. And for all of Jean and Kurt’s cajoling, Hank couldn’t gather the wherewithal to break through the initial blanket of iciness. That led him into the company of Paige, Jubilee, and Emma.

The first two young ladies, shielded from much of the mansion’s drama by the age barrier, still held him in high esteem. Emma Frost? She never had anything bad to say about Hank as much as Hank never had anything bad to say about her. Their relationship was cordial, nonjudgmental, and that was just what he wanted.

He appreciated Jubilee’s effort to cheer him up, but the melodrama wouldn’t leave.

Seeing Hank’s uneasiness, Emma swooped between one bubbly teen and one depressed doctor. “Logan wants to have a word with you.”

The very mention of his name unleashed Jubilee’s store of hero worship. Not a small part of her still liked to show off her tight connection with Wolverine, something Paige had been privy to before and, if that sparkle in Jubilee’s eye meant anything, would be privy to again in just a moment.

“Oooooo, Wolvie,” she called out to the man across the room while snatching Paige’s arm and sliding out of her chair, “You rang?”

Logan squinted, glancing between a beaming Jubilee and a way too calm Emma. He glued his stare on Emma and tilted his head in Jubilee’s direction, almost as if saying, “I didn’t say nothing. What’s your game, Frost?”

In response, the blonde leaned to the side, revealing Hank in all his dejected glory. Her eyes darted between Beast and Jubilee in a “Game? What game? I’m trying to stop this girl from driving him insane” gesture.

He grunted, his posture relaxing slightly. “Get over here, kiddo,” he said in that gruff yet affectionate way of his. Two blinks later and Jubilee--Paige in tow--went from the kiddy table to Betsy’s table, somehow seamlessly inserting herself into three of the ongoing conversations there.

Emma ruefully sighed to herself. For a non-telepath, Logan could communicate quite well without speech. Probably had something to do with all the inhuman growling he’d done in his life. Rrrrrr, point, point, grrrrrrrrrr, punch, kick, roar, growl, grumble, point.

Hehe.

“Oh my stars and garters, was my foul mood so apparent?”

Not to mince words, Emma polished off the rest of her martini before saying, “Of course. They’re young, not stupid.”

“True,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Youth... I remember it like it was yesterday...”

“It was yesterday. I’m sure you were younger twenty four hours ago.”

“Your cynicism befuddles even my own, Ms. Frost. I bow at your Hemmingway-esque powers.”

“I’ve had practice during these past two days.”

Hank chugged his beer before chuckling, “Ah yes, what a segue into asking me about my own issues pertaining to the party-hardy Ms. Braddock. Points for subtlety, Ms. Frost.”

Well, not exactly her intention, but since he brought it up...

“Elisabeth feels terrible,” said Emma, “And she doesn’t think you’d want her apologies because you’ve been rather picky at the company you keep. As Jean noted, she is just as afraid to talk to you as you are of her.”

“My, my, I forget how fast word spreads in the mansion.”

“That it does,” Emma admitted, “but you’d be amazed how much you can learn from scanning Jubilation’s surface thoughts.”

It was good to hear Beast’s laugh again. Loud and boisterous, it turned many frowns upside-down, and Emma had a soft spot for it. Why, she’d almost join him herself if her cell phone wasn’t ringing.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Frost, this is Sheila.” Sheila. New personal assistant at Frost Enterprises. Dealt almost exclusively with PR. “Are you in front of a television?”

Emma looked around and saw all the TVs turned to a baseball game and surround by fans. “Yes, I am.”

“Please turn it to CNN, ma’am. We have a problem.”

She walked to one of the sets and changed the channel. A few disgruntled Cubs fans yelled at her, but her patent-pending “Don’t make me destroy your soul” glare silenced them. One of the news network’s mainstays, Aaron Brown, yammered away while the words “Breaking News” flashed across the ticker.

“... as can be. On the phone, we’re joined by this man, one Dr. Isa Hayes, formerly of Frost Enterprises in Chicago. Welcome Dr. Hayes.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

“You claim that your previous employer, owner and CEO of the multi-billion dollar conglomerate, Emma Grace Frost, is a mutant.”

“That is correct, Aaron.”

“You have to understand that, in the current American climate, this is one loaded allegation, Dr. Hayes.”

“Yes I do, but it is the truth, so I have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you have any proof? Ms. Frost is perhaps the United States’ most respected businesswoman and held in very high esteem by many. The burden of proof, sir, is upon you.”

“Well, I’ve developed a mutant tracking device by combining a software genetic filter with every day GPS technology. My first subject was one of the X-Men. In a curious twist, I tried to identify all the individuals surrounding him and found one of them to be my former employer. I approached her with this information and she terminated my contract.”

“Fascinating st-”

Emma shut off the TV.

Everyone in the bar quietly stared at her, and if not for the Cubs game, people could actually hear themselves.

“Hello?” asked Sheila. “Ma’am, are you still there? Hello?”

“I’ll be at the Manhattan office soon.” She hung up and stomped out the door.

Betsy looked at the dumbfounded crowd, frowned in disgust, and took off after the blonde. In the parking lot, she shouted at her quickly retreating target, “Emma! Hey Emma! Wait!”

The woman whipped around, angry as all hell. “Not a broken toy!” she shouted at Betsy, harkening back to their previous talk, “Keep to yourself on this one. Frost Enterprises is my child and I’ll be damned if some no-name, disgruntled hack tarnishes its image!”

“I’m just telling you to be careful,” calmed Betsy as she caught up to Emma. “I know how much your company means to you, and if you need anything, call me.”

“Are you trying to get into my good graces?”

“No, I’m treating you like a friend, albeit a very touch-and-go, mercurial as a drunk Irishman friend, but a friend nonetheless.”

So Betsy made an effort to reach out. Fine. Emma could do that too despite all the nosy poking and prodding.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Thud. She pulled the gates down on their psychic rapport.

*****************

Tessa was abso-freakin’-lutely amazing. What was that about the quiet ones? They were bound to be spitfires in bed? Well, Tessa wasn’t a spitfire: she was better, like a Harrier jet. Up and down, left to right, she did it all. At least, she did all the stuff Bobby saw in his extensive stash of porn.

For some reason, despite his pleasure, he couldn’t help but feel a little used. As always, Tessa seemed lacking in the emotion department, but the hugest blow to his manliness was, well, right now. They’d just finished and Bobby lounged in the “I need a cigarette” zone when she sprung out of bed and slapped on her clothes.

No pillow talk. No after sex jitters. No overwhelming disgust. Just boom, boom, boom, clothes go on. She resembled a decathlete striding off to her next event.

“Ummm, do I get any feedback?”

Tessa shot a glance at him as she tied her shoes. “Like what, Robert?”

“I dunno. Nice ass? Sloppy moves? Awesome packaging? Fast shipping? A++?”

She actually looked contemplative for a moment. “Good package. Average technique. May do business again. 3 out of 5.”

3 out of 5? “Are you calling the Drake Express a crappy ride?”

“No. Considering my expertise on sexual intercourse, a score such as yours is admirable.”

Geez, way to stick your neck out there, Bobby. After sleeping with her, rake up memories of her spy days in the Hellfire Club and see what happens. Bad enough he came off looking like an insecure, clingy castaway, but now he also trended into forbidden waters.

Spinning to save the moment, Bobby blurted, “What’s the rush, Tessa?”

“Robert, the time is 8:37 PM. The night is still young.”

“What’s wrong with watching the night grow old and wrinkled in bed?”

Nothing turns a girl on like sweet talk about geriatrics, right Bobby?

For his sake, Tessa let him down slow. “Please, I still need to sleep in my room later. Go and watch Cinemax in the commons.”

Bobby’s sensible option would be to bow his head, put on his clothes, and spend the rest of the night beating himself over his mistakes. When it came to Bobby, he never trusted sensible. The man flew by the seat of his pants, most of the time straight into trouble, but on occasion...

“Was I a pity fuck?”

On occasion he flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

Anyone else would’ve mashed him into a bloody pulp, but Tessa wasn’t anyone else. Her steady demeanor and analytical mind made her virtually impregnable to emotional tantrums, and right now, for Bobby, that was a good thing.

“We needed this,” she evenly replied. “Your fear of your secondary mutation has made you unstable. You required someone to show you that the ones you hold dear will not think less of you. Me, I expelled my stress through sex. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“So I was a pity fuck...”

“What do you want, Robert? Would you like me to shout my undying devotion to you from the roof of the mansion? Would you like to be bound in an exclusive relationship with another X-Man? Would you like to dine on the Orne river of France and feed each other the cuisine de terroir?”

He had no idea what cuisine de terroir was, but it sounded good. “Well, yes, yes, and YES?”

“No, the correct response is none of the above. Exclusive relationships on the team are complicated, and more often than not, end miserably. Have you witnessed Scott and Jean’s marriage? How about Warren and Betsy’s fling? Remember when Rogue left Gambit to die in Antarctica? I will not be embroiled in that kind of drama. My devotion to you is the same as it always was: a friend and a teammate. For the time being, I find you a comfortable distraction, devoid of demands, expectations, and judgments. My reluctance along with your maturity level dictate that this will be the best arrangement for us.”

Bobby was just about to argue more when a green flash of light pulsed through Tessa’s window. As this was the X-Mansion, green flashes of light on the property only meant trouble, so Tessa shrugged on her trench coat and Bobby iced up. They raced down the stairs in time to see Scott throwing open the front door and shouting, “Who are you?!”

The man wore a dark ski mask and a coat similar to Tessa’s--similar enough, she noted, to be similarly armed to the teeth. A... contraption was behind him, something which looked like a huge, four-legged beetle. He had a sports bag draped over his shoulder and his other hand lay at his side.

“My name is Fantomex,” he said to the three X-Men, “and I need asylum.”

“From who?” asked Scott, cautious and skeptical, most notably at the gigantic, unmoving beetle thing.

“From the Weapon Plus program. I’m prepared to offer information and money.”

Scott was about to tell him to take his money elsewhere when the Professor called out from the background, “Let him in, Scott.”

Trusty, old Professor Charles Xavier, always the good mutant Samaritan.

Sage smiled.

*****************

Whoever killed Aubin did a masterful job. Cleaved the poor, tubby man clean in half--no ripped skin, no jagged bone, no asymmetry, not even on his massive gut. Done like a pro, no one heard anything amiss and no one saw anything out of the ordinary. Most importantly, no one saw a killer. Busy street out there, and pretty amazing no one saw a damned thing. All anyone knew was Aubin walked into the alley and never walked out.

People thought the devil did him in.

“Might not be far from de truth,” Remy mumbled to himself.

Again he looked through the desolate, dead-end alley. La Boulangerie bakery to one side, the Pawtuck Saloon on the other. Both extended about eight stories up, the floors dotted by apartments, offices, and businesses. Nothing to really go on, not even a footprint, but in a world of mutants, the lack of leads didn’t surprise anyone. Every Guild member had been instructed to not let each other out of sight, but somehow, Aubin came in here by himself.

Which meant someone he knew was here or someone he knew set him up.

Remy frowned. The days of Thief versus Assassin were past them, but blood feuds died hard. Could be a grudge from days back rearing its ugly head. Aubin was a fence and not exactly the most well-liked guy, but for someone in the Guild to outright kill him?

The scenario didn’t make sense. Why would a vengeful killer indiscriminately kill Assassin and Thief while calling out the absentee leader of the Guild? No, this person had beef with the Guild itself...

Or Remy himself.

A killer this good wouldn’t go to such lengths to lure Remy here, back to his home turf where he had an advantage with local knowledge and numbers. No, this chase smelled more and more like a game. Whoever this was wanted a set of specific conditions, but puzzling out the madman’s reasons proved elusive.

Why kill once a night when you could do it any time?

Why random Guild members?

Why even give the Guild a warning?

Why not kill just Bella Donna if he wanted to send a message?

And why a freakin’ sword? Make no mistake about it, Aubin got cut in two by a long sword--needed something lengthy enough to get past all his blubber. Nothing made sense--Remy was at his wit’s end and needed to leave.

Aubin stank.

Another twenty three hours before the killer struck again. No clues, no motive, no way to stop him. Rogue’s offer for help looked mighty tempting, but he couldn’t bring her into this, not when she could die.

Remy LeBeau wasn’t that kind of man.

*****************


- To be continued...