Chapter 9: Straight, No Chaser
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 white, 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 else.”
“And?”
She sipped, closing her eyes to savor the alcohol. “It’s something else. 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 fells 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, the first 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 separate out our selves now?*
Emma couldn’t say no anymore. Lodged in Betsy’s astral form were aspects of Emma 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 a time seemed feasible.
Bowing her head, Emma assented. *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?*
*Subtly 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.”
*****************
- To be continued...
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