Chapter 11: A Simple Matter of Trust
“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 like Fort Knox, and I’m not forcing my way in, however simple or difficult it might be. You think you get 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 to them. 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.
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?* Emma pressed.
*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 collapsed 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.”
*****************
- To be continued...
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