Pulse, Part Thirteen

by Tangerine

 "Apocalypse?"  Emma asked with mild alarm, keeping her voice and calm despite the terror she felt.  She had never met the devil, had hoped she never would, and now her fears were for the children.  "Are you sure?"

 "I saw him rip out my guts," Domino replied, lying on the bed but every moment or so struggling to rise to her feet.  Emma pushed her down with every attempt, her hand placed firmly on the pale shoulder.  "That mindwitch ..."

 "Watch your tongue."

 "Whatever.  That *telepath* has been hiding things for you, from all of us, and we all look like fools for letting it get this far.  The reality, Emma, is that you have a psychopathic and very pregnant telepath running around," Domino muttered, trying once again to sit up but collapsing in mute pain, her eyes squinting shut.  "Fuck and damn.  This hurts."

 Emma put a hand on her shoulder.  "If you would stop moving, that would not be a problem.  However, you are right to tell me this.  I had no idea, I didn't even suspect Elisabeth was on the brink until she showed up in my bedroom with you."

 Domino threw her arms against the bed in disgust at her own weakness.  "We have to find her and stop her from making another stupid mistake.  She's allied herself with Sinister, opposed Apocalypse and attempted to outwit the Crimson Dawn."

 "The Crimson what?"

 "You should get out of Boston, Frost, and open your eyes.  We have two complete teams missing, X-Factor is long dead, Excalibur finally caved in on itself, and Generation X is the only team Xavier has left, wherever he might be."  Domino placed her white fingers against her forehead, amazed at the sheer amount of pain near-disembowelling caused.  "To save Psylocke's life when Sabretooth went after her, Wolverine and that bird-brained..."

 "Domino, have respect for the dead if you will.  Warren Worthington might not have been what everyone wanted him to be, but he was a good man," and an excellent lover she was tempted to add but didn't, "and I won't sit here and let you mock him when he can no longer defend himself against your somewhat brutal sense of humour."

 "Fuck you.  To make a long and downright ridiculous story short, Psylocke evidently owes her life to this so-called Crimson Dawn, which is a load of crap if you ask me.  They want her.  Apocalypse wants her.  Sinister has her.  Do you see the problem here?"

 "You will watch how you speak to me.  Injured or otherwise, I won't take that, least of all from you."  Emma sat back in her chair, crossing her long legs and running her hand through her silky hair.  "I see the problem.  What do you propose I do about it?"

 "Not you.  Me.  Let me out of this damned infirmary."

 "Domino, you not seem to realise that if I want you to stay here in bed that you will stay here."  She emphasised the last words, already feeling her strong personality being eclipsed by an even mightier one.  It was not a pleasant acknowledgement.  "Give yourself another day, and we'll discuss this again."

 "Like hell we will!"

 Emma sighed deeply.  "Will you be rational for just one minute, Domino?  Give me that much please.  If we do, and yes I mean we, move on this, it will be when you can at least sit up without plunging into agony."

 Domino grunted, crossing her muscular arms over her small chest, tapping one finger on her biceps as she breathed deeply through her nose, teeth clenched.  She didn't like this situation Elisabeth had put her into, she didn't like this utter feeling of uselessness.  One day as an X-Man, and Apocalypse wipes her out.

 Emma pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to fight the headache that threatened her.  "You know we don't have the power to move.  It would be suicide."

 "That can be overcome."

 "Can it?"

 "Yeah." Domino thought for a moment.  "If you bring that kid with the face, we'd have a chance at least.  Nate says he's on par with him, which must mean he's pretty hot stuff.  Me, you, the kid, it could work then."

 "I don't want the children involved."

 "He's old enough to make up his own mind," Domino replied coldly, trying to put a name to the face she recalled so vividly in her mind.  She remembered the colours and how they had put a sense of wonder back into her life.  Cable had felt something similar seeing the boy, and they had made love for hours afterward, the world seeming less horrible knowing they could still see the beauty.  God, she missed him.  "He's omega class, Emma."

 "I know that," she snapped, pushing her blonde hair out of her face with her palms.  "Jono is too young to be involved in this, regardless of the amount of power he has.  This is the last thing he needs to add to everything else."

 "Maybe this will give him purpose.  God knows I had none in my life until I started fighting back.  Ask him, Emma, and let him decide.  I don't like what's going on here because it goes beyond Psylocke.  It'll start with her, but one of her opponents will continue with it until it affects us all.  I know that's the future we face."

 Emma nodded and stood up, flattening her jacket along her hips.  "I'll ask him because I know you're right.  Whatever is going on here, whatever will happen, will have a far reaching hand.  And Domino, please rest.  He almost killed you."

 "I'm not dead yet."

 Emma smiled and nodded, shutting the door behind her as she left, and Domino lay back to stare at the ceiling as if she could somehow will the strength back into her body.  With time, sleep came, and she slept with frantic dreams.

****

"That is in no way fun," Remy said in disgust as he fell from the shadows, lying on the green grass until he felt it safe to move again.  Bobby nodded weakly, feeling cold when such an idea had long ago become absurd.  Remy watched as Betsy brought Shatterstar through the black hole, giving him to Bobby to steady.  Remy raised an eyebrow and grinned to himself.

Could they ...?  He dismissed the concept.  That particular idea was too weird.

 Betsy stepped into the light, one hand on her heavy belly and the other one to her head.  She moaned a weak mew, stumbling until Remy caught her, setting her upright.  She shook him off, but he would not let go.  "I am fine."

 "No, you're not," Remy replied quietly, his arm entangled with hers to keep her straight.  "There ain't no shame in admitting you're weak, Elisabeth, or that you need help, but you gotta be careful who you get that help from.  That was my mistake."

 "Gambit the Marauder, eh?"  Bobby said dryly.

 "Gambit the Stupid is more like it, Robert," Remy replied, trying to be stronger than the demons of his past, but it was hard.  He hadn't forgiven himself for that moment of weakness.  It had done too much damage.  "Xavier knew, you know.  I told him."

 "Wonderful," Bobby said, touching his hand to Shatterstar's back before remembering where he was, and more importantly, who he was.  Shatterstar smiled at him before he could move, seemingly forgiving him for the asinine display yesterday.  Why couldn't he just come out and say it?  It was obvious he wouldn't be rejected, even Betsy had seen as much.  It frustrated him and made him angry at himself.

 Remy grinned again, the second clue, and the impossible seemed to become possible, but still he couldn't quite believe it.  It was still too weird to think about, and he really didn't want to think about anything at that exact moment.

 Betsy closed her eyes, aware only of the overwhelming sense of pain that seemed to be within every cell of her body.  Once again, she searched for signs of life and could sense nothing, not a murmur, not a cry, just nothing.  The fear made her sick, and the stress was getting to her.  She could feel herself beginning to break.  She could not hold out much longer.  It would tear her apart.  "Remy?"

 "Yes, chere?"

 "Don't let go of me?"

 "Never.  Now come on.  It's a long walk down."

 Bobby looked around, putting his hand over his eyes to look up at the bright sun and the skyline of the buildings it highlighted beautifully.  Good old New York, he thought dryly.  He had never asked where they had been, but he realised now it didn't matter.  From the beginning, he had gone forward without question and it had worked for him.  He wasn't going to change that.

 Gambit led them to a sewer entrance, one of many Bobby could remember using to get underground and to the Morlocks.  It was wet with slime, and the stench was overwhelmingly terrible, acidic and putrid.  Bobby plugged his nose with his fingers, his eyes burning with the bitter ripeness of it all.

 "I am going to be sick," Betsy said weakly, and Remy held her as she fell to her knees, vomiting onto the ground.  He had been sick, he remembered vividly, when he had seen Warren strung up like meat to die.  It had been the vile mix of blood and human waste, and though Remy could do nothing to save him, he washed his body with a wet, dirty rag so that upon death it would not be evident how utterly they had destroyed him.  "Thank you for that."

 "Huh?"  Not the most eloquent of responses, but he honestly didn't understand.

 Betsy wiped the sickness from her lips, bowing her head and taking a deep breath.  "I will apologise in advance to anyone I unwillingly scan, but my telepathy is not functioning right.  Nothing about me is quite right anymore.  I'm sorry, Remy."

 "Doesn't matter," he replied.

 "It does," she insisted, retching violently again as the smell proved to be too much for her already weak body.  She put her hand on his arm, needing to say this for reasons she could not understand.  This woman she was becoming, it was like she was going back to the way she had once been, and she suddenly had every intention of convincing others that she had not always been the sultry, sexy Psylocke.  "It does matter.  It mattered to him.  That's why he didn't blame you.  It meant everything to him, so it means the same to me."

 "Then you're welcome, I guess," Remy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm.  He could feel the eyes on him.  The tender eyes of Betsy, the harsh eyes of Bobby, the unknowing eyes of Shatterstar, they all looked at him, trying to catch a glimpse into his soul.  "This doesn't mean what I did was right.  It can't change it."

 "I know," Betsy replied wearily, "but it means you have the strength to redeem yourself."

 "Says you," Remy muttered but said nothing more about it.  He helped Betsy to her feet, holding onto her arm as they began to walk again.  He watched Bobby, noting how his glance rested on Shatterstar on occasion before he turned abruptly away, hoping that no one had noticed.  Remy regarded him with immense pity.

 As the light slowly disappeared and the world crept into the shadows, Betsy shook, the muted screams scratching her ears and crying for her to come to them.  They were where she belonged now.  How much longer could she ignore that?  But she was afraid to leave this world, the one with sun and light and warmth.  In there, in the shadows, it was cold and dark, like death itself, yet still, her need for them was like a drug.  She would never truly be at peace until she accepted her fate lay in the blackness beyond, but she would be so lonely there.

 "Don't lose it now, chere," Remy said quietly, clutching her tighter, and only then did she become aware of her tears.  She nodded, agreeing, but it was impossible to stop the tears.  She had been doing this too long.  It was so much harder than she thought it would be.  It was so much harder alone.

****

 "I bought this for you," Warren said, handing her a small box wrapped in silver paper.  He had been so shy about it, so earnestly happy to have bought the gift though he struggled hard to hide it.  They had made it to two months.  Betsy had never been so happy in her life, and she took the book with the tips of her fingers, looking coyly at him.  "It reminded me of you."

 "All right," she said slowly, pulling at the silver ribbon then carefully peeling away the tape from the paper.  He watched her, biting his lip then chewing on his nails.  He had not overwhelmed her with gifts or flaunted his money, trying to buy her affection.

 He watched as she opened the box, twining her fingers in the golden string and pulling the glass ornament from the tissue paper.  The paper fell from her hand, and she laid the gift in her palm, running her finger over it.  It was smooth and cool to the touch, and she held it up to the window, her fingers holding the rope as the sun cast through the glass.  With a breath, she gasped as tiny pink butterflies reflected onto her hands, dimly painted on the walls and on Warren's face as he watched her, grim as always.

 "It's beautiful," she whispered breathlessly, holding out her hand to him.  He approached her warily, still convinced that she was a dream, that she was too good for him, and she smiled gently to ease his fears.  "Thank you."

 "You're welcome," he replied, his voice uneven as she took his fingers with hers, weaving them together then pulling to have him sit next to her.  She looked at him, and he put his hand to her face, brushing away a loose strand of hair.  Their eyes met, purple against blue, and there sparks of something greater than them, a flash of something amazing.

 She didn't know then that it was really love, and the next day Sabretooth ripped her apart, tore her guts from her body in hope that she would die.  By then, they had already been condemned by the Crimson Dawn, and the innocent, the naive joy they held about each other, was stripped from them.  They been so close to true happiness, to the ideal of pure love.

****

 It was strange she remembered that day now, descending down the steps into hell.  It had been eclipsed by Sabretooth, irrevocably destroyed and ruined in her memories, but she thought of that gift now and how it still hung on her window, letting the butterflies brighten her world in the slightest way with a flutter of beauty.

 She was still reflecting on the preciousness of that day when Remy stopped in his tracks, muttering a foul French curse.  Still holding onto his arm, she looked up, an uneasy feeling settling upon her.

 Sinister sat against the wall, clutching his metallic insides as they seeped from his body, and he looked at them, not powerful, not in control, but hurt, wounded, like a bird, like Warren had been at his minion's hands.

 "It seems I am not as immortal as I originally thought."

[next part]

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