Pulse, Part Nineteen

by Tangerine

 On some level, Betsy was aware Apocalypse had found her friends.  Emma had sent one, strong telepathic pulse into the astral plane before Apocalypse took her out, but it was the least of her concern.  All of her thoughts, every bit of worry and hope was being focussed on her baby, on the flickering of tiny thoughts that raced through her head.  It was tragically beautiful, and Betsy wept for grace until her chest heaved and her ribs ached.

 Sweating profusely yet oddly cold, Betsy sat with her back against the wall, the scars of Warren's mutilation at the hands of the Marauders above her head where she could not see them, but her arms were raised to them, wanting to touch that little bit of him, that mark he had left in the world.  She found herself realising this was what he had seen when he thought he would die.

 "Warren," Betsy murmured, placing her hand to her head and feeling the fever.  "Warren, this is such a bleak place, isn't it?  And this wall is so cold, honey, how did you stand it?  It must have dulled your pain.  You must have been numb.  Thank God."

 Betsy's armour lay in pieces beside her, torn off with one last burst of energy, and she had covered her legs with her cape for modesty's sake if nothing else.  She laughed weakly, imagining what Apocalypse would think, seeing her lying half-naked in the place where his precious son had begun the path to hell.  Would he see the irony?  Would he laugh with her?  And where was he?  Why had he not come to kill her yet?  Playing with her, instilling fear of nothing in her, that was his way, she understood.  She hated him.

 Betsy moaned painfully, drawing her legs closer to her body and wishing the baby would just pop out, no pain, no stretching, no time.  It was so wrong, so wrong that such a precious little darling would have to be born here, in the dark, in the filth of New York and their carelessness.  It was so unfair to give her such a beginning.  It would stay with her always, tainting her from the start.

 "Warren, do you remember the first time we kissed?"  She spoke slowly, writhing in agony and trying to pretend that was not the case, trying to be brave if only for herself.  She laughed weakly.  She could even play mind games with herself.  That was the mark of a true telepath.  "You took me flying.  You looked so handsome that night, so happy.  How brave you were, darling, how brave you were to bare your soul to me.  It was such a beautiful soul.  You were such a mix of good and evil, of light and dark, and it pulled me to you.  You and I, we were one from the very beginning."

 Betsy closed her eyes and hoped she would not cry anymore.  It was such a sign of weakness.  She then imagined herself in the mansion, delivering her child there under the watchful and caring eyes of Henry McCoy, where she had a chance to live, a chance to grow and learn.  Here, Betsy realised, here she was going to die.  They both were.

 "Warren, Warren."  How hollow his name sounded here as if he had never really existed at all, never living, all a dream, all in her head.  "Oh, god, Warren, why won't you come back to me?  I love you, Warren, and you came back for lesser reasons."

 Betsy whimpered.  "Forgive me, love, it is the fever speaking."

 Her thoughts were frantic, and she opened her eyes to see the shadows writhing in turn, reacting to her distress.  "I must get up, and I must get to the surface.  I must not ..."  Betsy bit her fist to muffle her cries, knowing how useless her thoughts were, how her child would be born soon, too soon.  "Warren!  Please!  I can't do this alone!"

 Betsy hit her head against the rock in utter frustration and stared blankly at the dull, grey wall.  What a sight to die seeing.  How dreadfully unfair.  She tipped her head, her wet and sweaty hair rushing to cover her face, and she saw a rat.

 "Come here," she instructed the rodent, and it came to her.  Faint pink light touched its head, and she used its eyes to see what she could not.  The head, oh god, it could see the head.  "Go, you poor beast, back to your hell and let me die."

 It scurried off into the dark.

 Betsy was hopeless, utterly and despairingly hopeless.  She had come so far just to lose everything.  Her fever was high, far higher than was healthy, and her baby, her baby was a month early, heralded into the world far before she was ready.

 "You have my luck, sweetheart," Betsy murmured, stroking her belly.  "I know you are hurting, precious, but so am I.  It's just you and me, my angel, you and me against this horrible, horrible world, but I have faith in you, darling, I have faith in your strength.  Your daddy..." he voice choked on the word.  "Your daddy was an angel."

 "My angel."

****

 "Where is the child?"  Apocalypse asked, his Horsemen coming into formation behind him, and Apocalypse crossed his arms over his chest, standing with legs apart, overshadowing them all.  "Where is Worthington's daughter?"

 "You will never have her," Bobby replied, his voice strong and loud against the stifling sense of power Apocalypse held.  "You destroyed her father, and we will not let you touch her.  I will kill you first."

 "You would try," Apocalypse said, "and you would succeed, for you are worthy, mutant, but you do not have the strength of mind to attempt it.  My son knew what it took.  He gave up his humanity for power."

 "But he took it back from you and gave it to that baby," Bobby replied, for the first time since he was fourteen feeling the cold of his body, the vastness of his power.  He was angry, and he was upset, and he realised that this power he felt to the marrow of his bones was what Emma had seen, had felt.  He had just never cared enough.  "What is with people like you?  Why do you think that you can rule the world?"

 "I do not think.  I know.  Weakness will not be tolerated.  You will not be tolerated."

 "No," Bobby said, "you're the one we won't tolerate."

 Bobby looked to Shatterstar, who nodded and spoke to Chamber, guessing at Iceman's plan.  The air was visible as it escaped Bobby's lips, and his lean body was covered in ice, ready to fight.  Domino and Gambit were already gone, anticipating the need and moving into position.

 Apocalypse stepped forward and stopped, watching with a blank expression as the shadows began to move, shifting along the floor like liquid tar.  And for a moment they all stopped, watching, wondering, and it wasn't long until the shadows began to moan, an empty and far sound, a sad wailing from the dead.

 Suddenly, with a loud screech, the shadows started writhing furiously, the sound escaping the emptiness the most hideous and grotesque sound that Bobby could have imagined, and he watched the dark lash out against his enemies.

 Bobby knew what it was and was not afraid.  "Betsy."

****

 "Warren," Betsy muttered.  His name had become a chant, and she found that she kept saying it, repeating it over and over again.  If she closed her eyes, she could see him, kneeling next to her, telling her that he loved her, that he would always be there for her.

 She had never felt more alone in her whole life.

 Bearing down, Betsy pushed again, trying to push away her thoughts about the pain and the worry.  Sinister had spoke of wings and frantically she chose now to think about the consequences of what she what attempting to do.  If she had wings, if she was going to be born with wings, they'd be hurt in childbirth, broken, mauled, torn.

 "Warren, I need you!"  Betsy shrieked, pushing because she couldn't stop herself.  She tried to ignore the wings, to hope that her daughter was born without them, whole and complete as she could be.

 If only she could merge with the shadows, bid them to take her far away from the tunnels, but they were so sick, so wounded, all they could do was pity her, hide her, suffer with her.  She pulled them closer, to touch the cold gleam of their surface.

 "Warren," Betsy cried with a shriek, "please, Warren!  Please!"

****

 War cried out as the shadows attacked him, forming into a spike that was driven through his heart.   Famine was already covered in the darkness, suffocating but quiet, not fighting, not caring, giving up.  Pestilence was dead, lying face down in the pool of blackness.

 "What is happening?"  Shatterstar asked quietly as the shadows slowly crept up his leg.

 "They're responding to her," Bobby whispered, his eyes wide as the dark touched his temple, stroking his face tenderly.  "They can tell who the good guys are.  Gav, keep an eye on Apocalypse.  He's going to try something."

 "He has never left my sight," Shatterstar replied unmoving, staring straight ahead without moving.  Apocalypse had not moved, had not so much as blinked when his Horsemen fell, and Shatterstar had watched him from that moment forward.  "They are not attacking him."

 *They are waiting for us.* Chamber looked at them, unwrapping the bandages from his face. *I can hear the creatures in my head.*

 "Then we better do what they want.  Star, Chamber, back me up."

****

 Betsy rolled her head, aware of the scent of blood all around her.  Her blood, she knew the smell, and it made her gag to think that she was haemorrhaging.  What an end, she thought miserably, what an end.

 "Warren," she murmured, pushing again, pushing in spite of the agony and the blood, pushing so that her child would live in her stead.  "Warren, please, my precious Angel, please, I'm dying.  Help me."

 Silence, silent, always quiet!

 She screamed, "Warren!"

****

 Apocalypse felt the ice first at his feet, a deep and penetrating chill that went straight to the bone.  He then felt the heat of the blasts attack the rest of his body, centred at his heart, where it would have been.  Psionic energy ripped into his head, and he laughed, feeling pain for the first time in centuries, knowing that he was right, that the boy, Chamber, was fit.  What a glorious day for the future!

 Another blast of energy hit him, but it was different, stronger, rawer.  Apocalypse looked at Shatterstar, wondering if he knew, if he realised that this power he wielded so carelessly would kill them all in time.  Fit and worthy, more than any of them, but stupid, ignorant.  An X-Man.

 Apocalypse touched his wrist and teleported out of the tunnels, taking his Horseman's mutilated bodies and vanishing, but not before laughing, before letting them see how alive he was and why they would never defeat him.

 He was far more worthy than them.

****

 Betsy opened her eyes.  Blood, she smelled it, blood, but she heard ... she gasped and sat up, hearing crying.  It was so dark, and the shadows had stopped moving.  Everything was still and silent but for the crying in her head.

 "My baby," she whispered, reaching into the darkness to grasp at the nothingness.  She understood, she was in the shadows, the harm to them was gone and they would be all right in time.  Closing her eyes, she thought of the tunnels and went back to them.

 The light was dim when she emerged, and she could not walk.  She could hear the crying, not with her ears but with her head, and it was so hard to see, to know where her daughter was.  She felt arms take her and pull her totally from the underworld.  She looked at the face.

 She gasped.

****

 Weaving in and out passages of stone, Iceman led with Shatterstar close behind, followed by Chamber, Domino then Remy with Emma in his arms, sleeping soundly.  The shadows were leading them, providing the path were they were to go, and they followed blindly.

 "Betsy!"  Iceman cried, bursting in the room, the sound of crying loud in his head when he knew it should have been in his ears.  He stopped when he saw the scene, his hands flying to his face and not wanting to look, not wanting to see what had been done again.  It wasn't the blood that bothered him.  He was used to it, but this, this he would never get used to.  "Betsy, you didn't."

 Betsy looked up, a silent baby on her lap wrapped in cloth, a ... membrane covering the tiny body?  Like an ... egg?  Bobby didn't understand, but he understood one very important thing: there were arms wrapped around both mother and child, pale arms, Caucasian arms, arms that should have been dead.  And the eyes!  The eyes of the dead man looked at Bobby, cold and blue and beautiful, and he knew, he knew immediately it was him. Warren.

 "She has a pulse," Betsy whispered with wide eyes, crazy eyes, sick with fever and bleeding slowly to death and not even realising it.  But Bobby knew it didn't matter to her, that she knew she could be saved.  He knew nothing mattered but one simple fact.

  "They both do."

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