Undercloak: Part Four

by queenB

Warren pads softly down the stairs of his Soho loft, towel cinched around his waist, still damp from his rather boisterous and nearly disastrous shower. Well, disastrous may be an over-statement but the shower-curtain was rather worried, as much as an inanimate object could possibly be. Luckily enough, both our blue-hued hero and his vinyl bathroom accessory survived the matter unscathed. The floor is another matter, however, and Warren is on his way to the kitchen broom-closet seeking a mop to soak up the near-deluge which has claimed his bathroom.

He tiptoes toward the kitchen, trying to take Betsy by surprise, hoping to repay her for sneaking up on him earlier. Apparently, he has momentarily forgotten that his prey is a telepath and is rarely startled by such antics. But let's not remind him, he's awfully cute when he's trying to be devious.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Archangel springs a good six feet in one burst, flapping his wings a little for momentum. His plan was to land square on his feet and shout a nice little "Gotcha!" or "Aha!" or something equally fitting for an ambush. Instead, he yells something much less eloquent and far more crude as he lands on a part of his anatomy other than his feet.

As Warren rises from the tile floor rubbing his now-tender backside, his two giant wings drip water incriminatingly onto the floor to either side of him. Face burning with embarrassment, he mutters, "Stupid, Warren, stupid." He expects to find Psylocke somewhere in the vicinity and begins to flounder for an explanation, hoping to mask his humiliation. Then he realizes his not-so-graceful choreography was appreciated by an audience of zero and that Betsy is nowhere to be found.

Gomurr the Ancient levitates in the air, legs tucked under in a lotus position. Psylocke brought him to the building's roof immediately after he made his presence known to her. Supposedly, Betsy sought this place so she could clear her head.

He is in no hurry. You don't get the epithet Gomurr the Ancient without some measure of patience. However, it is the young woman he has come to see who does not have the time to spare, so he decides to break the too-long silence, hoping that Elizabeth is finished with her meditations.

Lowering himself gently in front of Psylocke, he flashes his widest, most charming smile. "So, child, how have we been?"

Betsy sits uncomfortably on the asphalt, her brow tight with concentration. Ignoring the triteness of Gomurr's greeting, she doesn't even glance in his direction as she answers, "I haven't been myself."

"Well, that is to be expected, considering..."

Rising swiftly to her feet, Psylocke grabs the diminutive man by the neck of his robe. He looks on in alarm as shadows slither across the roof's pavement, encircling her like a dark hurricane, and she becomes the eye, the epicenter. She notices none of this as her psychic knife flares into existence, expanding in a pinkish glow from her fist.

Through clenched teeth, Psylocke seethes, "Considering what, little man? I want a straight answer this once. I am tired of your riddles."

Gomurr looks down, past his dangling feet to see the shadows coalescing, growing more and more dense. Turning back to face Betsy he speaks hoarsely, the fabric of his garment cutting into his larynx: "Elizabeth ... you must control yourself." He points toward the asphalt, "You must stop... this."

Glancing in the direction indicated, Betsy catches a glimpse of the writhing tempest whirling on the pavement below. Startled, she drops the old man from her hold, and he plummets deep into the shadows.

Warren sits at the kitchen table over an empty bowl of vegetable soup. His third bowl to be precise. Almost being killed by your girlfriend and then spending half a day talking about how that experience made you "feel" will make a body hungry. He had hoped to eat dinner with Betsy before it grew too late and she became, for lack of a better term, unapproachable. He had even tidied up the bathroom all on his own in an attempt to impress her, as if much he did now a days could. True, they had talked this whole 'Betsy is acting weird' issue out with some sort of temporary resolution, but that doesn't mean he has to feel any better about it. Let's face it, the guy's pretty depressed right now and the fact that Betsy's missing from their apartment isn't helping matters much.

He imagines her in some dark corner confronting something most likely cryptically mystical, something that he couldn't begin to understand. It used to be easier to snap her out of what she refers to as her 'spells.' A reassuring thought projected through their psychic rapport, or a comforting embrace would often be enough. But now? Now, he's never felt so useless. He thinks about going out to look for her. But after last night, you can imagine why he's hesitant.

After rinsing the dishes, Warren tightens the draw-string of his bathrobe around his waist and heads upstairs to the bedroom, thinking to himself, 'She's probably somewhere meditating. I'm sure she's fine. She can take care of herself... I hope.'

Warren's imagination was somewhat accurate. Betsy is most assuredly facing something mystical and quite beyond his comprehension. She is, however, far from 'fine.' After Gomurr disappeared into the shadowy maelstrom on the roof-top, Psylocke begins to panic. Mirroring her mental state, the darkness stirs even more, licking at her feet like the tide of a rough sea, threatening to draw her into the void as well. By Gomurr's implication and her own position as the shadows' locus, she assumes that this is her own creation. If only she could concentrate, perhaps she could make it subside.

But as she looks down onto the roof's surface once more, she is mesmerized by the shadows themselves. She can feel the cold seeping into her skin as she reaches a hand down into the abyss, caressing the pure nothingness of the darkness.

Oblivion is what waits on the other side.

Many times she has teleported between patches of darkness, but never darkness like this. From this, there is no return into light. Somehow, she knows this. Perhaps it is because it is part of herself, part of her destiny... if there is such a thing? Reflexively, she prepares herself for the descent.

'It's freezing in here. Feels like a tomb.' Warren maneuvers himself down the dark hallway, searching the wall with his palms for the thermostat. As his fingertips graze the edge of the climate-control unit, he knows something is not right.

The dim light coming from the bedroom illuminates the wall just enough that he can see something moving, inching across the wall's surface. And a cockroach it isn't. Warren's so paranoid of an insect infestation that he's got pest control in here twice a month. No, the slithering perpetrator is nothing less than a shadow.

Warily Archangel reaches out to touch it, and his fingertips disappear inside it's blackness. Slowly he pulls back his hand, shuddering from the encounter and rightfully frightened by the emptiness that seemed to engulf him for the few short moments he was in contact with it.

He staggers into the safety of the lighted bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to figure out what the hell is going on... when he's not in his bedroom anymore, or at least his mind isn't. As Warren's astral-self is jerked out of his body forcibly it slumps onto the bed, vacant of all higher brain functions. For a brief moment he levitates above his physical form, hoping this has nothing to do with the living shadow he discovered in the hall. Then he feels a gentle tug from behind, and he knows it's Psylocke. He follows the familiar path into her subconscious thoughts.

Both of them are together in a black room, or perhaps a box, with no distinguishing features. He attempts to re-orient himself in the near-darkness of Psylocke's mind. This isn't the first time this has happened, but it has always been different before. When Betsy usually pulls him into her subconscious, Warren's faced with a childhood memory or a tragic moment in her life that serves as a metaphor or a guide for him to follow. Never before has it been this stark, this daunting.

He finds Betsy curled up in a fetal position in the center of the room, rocking anxiously and muttering incomprehensible phrases to herself. Warren reaches out to her gently, trying to comfort her, hoping that she brought him here simply for reassurance, as he can think of nothing else to do. After a few awkward seconds Betsy glances about her surroundings, barely noticing Warren's astral-self. She stands to her feet suddenly, looking past him into the darkness and attempting to shrug off the arm he has offered for support.

Instinctfully, Warren tightens his grip around her as she attempts to flee. He doesn't know why exactly, but it is very important that he doesn't let her go. But she's too strong for him, much more experienced in this psychic environment. She slips free of his grasp and takes off running at full speed toward the wall of the room. He runs after her, expecting her to crash against the barrier. Instead, the wall disappears and Warren is left far behind, unable to bridge the lead she's gained. And then she's gone. Absolutely and utterly gone. His psychic rapport with Betsy is completely dead, and he is pulled back into his physical self.

The sounds of the outside world, the honking horns of the traffic below muffle and then disappear as Elizabeth Braddock slips into shadow. It seems a thousand icy fingers are wrapping themselves around her limbs, and then there are the whispers. They're getting louder. She is almost close enough to hear. She wants to know desperately what they are saying. Perhaps some great secret... And then, she feels a tugging from above, a strong grip on her shoulders and a voice. A familiar and now angry voice.

"Enough of this foolishness!!" Gomurr bellows as he pulls her back into the New York night. "You must be more careful, child."

Psylocke looks around the rooftop, the perfectly normal, vortex-free rooftop. "Gomurr? What's going on?"

"You nearly got both our souls erased from this life, that's what! If it weren't for my, ahem, expertise that would have been most unpleasant."

"But part of me..."

"Really wanted to go?" Betsy nods in silent affirmation and Gomurr answers, "Yes, well, that is why we must talk."

[next part]

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