Undercloak: Part One
by queenB
Elizabeth Braddock doesn't know what time it is or what place it is or exactly who she is. In fact she hasn't known that last bit for a while now. It's a long story, but let's just say she's fairly confused. Wouldn't you be if the body you lived in weren't the one you born with?
But she's dealt with that complexity for a while, even gotten used to it, even at times, enjoyed it. She's a super hero and a mutant to boot. Stuff like that comes with the territory. Psylocke knew that going in, knew being the key-word. Like I said, right now she doesn't know much of anything. Ever since she was exposed to the Crimson Dawn elixir months ago, moments of clarity have been few and far between and unfortunately, now is not one of those choice times.
She does know that she's outside at the moment, though not quite sure about the significance of being inside. Dichotomies are really difficult for her right now. Inside, outside. Black, white. Good, evil. You see, it's night and it's harder for her than during the day: another duality she has trouble with. The influence of the Crimson Dawn has shown her that polarities and opposites are not all that different, everything is only a smear or blur of different possibilities.
Let's just say her Yin has a little too much Yang in it. And though she may not know it, she's on a Soho rooftop in the middle of a rainstorm, in just her skivvies, and someone is very worried about her.
Warren Worthington III is awake; he often is this time of night, usually because of Betsy's screaming. It's almost like having a baby in the house, though much more frightening and far from childish. But no one's screaming tonight, at least not yet. Warren inches his hand toward the side of the bed she should be sleeping in. But of course, she's not there.
He sits up groggily and notices the bed-side analogue clock, the green glowing numbers indicate the time: 3:16 a.m. As Warren reaches for his bathrobe, he wishes he could have a sense of humor this early in the morning. No doubt these now nightly searches for the reality-displaced Psylocke might become more bearable.
Before he turns on the bedroom light, he uses his sharp eye-sight to make sure Elizabeth's not lurking in the darkened corners. Sometimes he's even found her inside the shadows themselves and had to coax her back into the dim light of this world. Right now that's not the case, so it's safe to click on a lamp. He can't begin to fathom what would happen if she were caught in shadow with the lights turned on. Would she be flash-fried like those undercloaks he and Wolverine battled during their search for the Ebon Vein? He definitely isn't eager to find out.
He struggles with the robe, forcing his giant, feathered wings through the large slits cut into its back. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he makes his way through the rest of the apartment.
Though not a telepath like Psylocke, he has spent a lot of time inside her head and they have formed a slight telepathic link, a residual effect from their psychic sharing. Often in moments of panic, Betsy uses her telepathic power to drag him inside her mind and consequently, her nightmares. He often wonders if she were even capable of this before her most recent transformation. Regardless of Psylocke's dubious new manifestations, what he often finds within her subconscious is far from pleasant.
*Betts?*
She doesn't answer him.
'This can't be good.'
Elizabeth's thoughts are a tangled jumble, though Warren would like to think of them as a maze: that if he and Betsy could somehow, together follow the twists and turns, they would end up in the center of the puzzle. There they would find Betsy whole and finally free. However, all they've managed to find are dead ends and right now Betsy's stuck in one of them, frightfully alone, and the shadows on the roof top are closing in.
She wants something to stop, but she's not quite sure what. The wet drops falling from the sky? Can she stop those? She thinks she knows someone who can, but where is she? Is she even real? Maybe she can stop the gnawing at the back of her skull? Make the buzzing go away...
Maybe it's the cacophony inside her head that she wants to cease, the millions of whispering voices, deafening because of their numbers. The humming builds to a crescendo, and then Psylocke actually hears the air around her rustle. She knows he's coming. Maybe she can get him to stop. Maybe then it won't be so loud. She hides herself in the encroaching darkness and waits for her prey.
Warren lands lightly on the roof top, hoping this is where Betsy went. He crouches close to the rain-slicked tar of the roof, using his feathered wings to keep most of the pounding rain away from his face.
Yeah, Warren's a mutant, also. Ten to one you already knew that. Had it pretty rough, too. See, he's got blue skin and used to be under the influence of a three-thousand year old sadist, who invented the word power-monger. Still don't know why it turned him blue. Maybe it's Apocalypse's favorite color? Archangel's wings used to be metal, too. But they're feathers now and were once before, back when he wasn't blue. Needless to say, that's why him and Betsy hit it off so well. They're two peas in a genetically twisted and previously brain-washed pod.
There's no trace of Psylocke until he remembers... 'The shadows'... and then he sees her. Her red, crescent-shaped tattoo gleams brightly out of the shadows, and her lips curl back revealing a toothy, almost oozing grin. She leaps for him, summoning psychic knives from both fists. She's quick and final.
He reminds himself, 'Yes, Warren, this is the woman you love...'
-CHAKKZZT-
And as he screams himself unconscious, his mind melting away layer by painful layer, love might be the only thought that keeps him alive. That is if Betsy remembers what that is, and we all know how confused she's been lately...
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