2013-01-23 On Your Feet, Soldier

It's been a few weeks since Latveria, and Carol has spiraled into depression and self pity. The confidence which seemed to be the core of who she was, how she held herself, and how she presented herself to others, has eroded away to nothing. She doesn't believe that she should be out there, trying to help people... to her, that's just begging for trouble. As in, she doesn't feel that she is able to help more than hurt. It was her aerial cover that failed, and then there was 'dying' half a dozen times... painfully, via poisons and toxins that were even slower due to her body's resistance to such things. Then there was the breakout, whre she felt useless until she very nearly died for real. And then when she -finally- started feeling like she was contributing.. she finished her part of the fight, only to see a young girl who had come all that way to rescue the captured folks... only to arrived just in time to get killed. That was the breaking point for Carol. She has no idea that Dazzler can return from the dead. She just knows that a young woman -died- because she failed by getting captured. So.. she's been drinking heavily... made all the more frustrating by her resistance to the intoxication effect. Were she normal, her liver would have jumped out, and ran screaming down the street by now. Her loft is... well it's seen better days. It's not trashed, but there are empty bottles here and there, and it could use a good vacuuming and dusting and such. Currently... she's out, acquiring more booze.... nobody's home.

Guilt is a powerful emotion, but it cuts both ways. Psylocke's first impulse upon escaping the pain-drenched halls of Castle Doom was to hide herself away - to bitterly, shamefully flee from the weight of responsibility. On some foolish level justifying her actions through the knowledge that the others were at least 'safe', with a structure to support them, the kunoichi excused herself from pressing contact to instead seek some absolution through other actions. Perhaps, she desperately reasoned, performing one good act successfully might help counter-balance the mistakes she'd made; and the woes she had, whatever her true intentions, caused to fall upon others.

It's too easy to imagine that people wouldn't want her to do otherwise. That she'd be unwanted because she had failed. A folly indeed in the light of all that had occurred; she found forgiveness from without even as she was broken from within. Some remain harder to face than others, however. Kwabena and Domino walked free and were free to return - their actions came closest to proving they didn't need her. Blink had a similar role, though they were meaningfully enough entwined by the events of the escape. Forgiveness, absolution, became moot.

Carol, however. Possibly the strongest and most capable of them all; certainly the most directly *powerful*, she nonetheless fell perhaps the most foul of Doom's ministrations. The only one who needed to be rescued by Betsy, and the one to physically fall again as they all strove for the light of day beyond Doomstadt. That she had such strength could only make the knowledge of failure worse - and she was, of all of them, the only one Psylocke had called a friend for any length of time. Whatever the bond between she and Shift, Blink or even the patch-eyed mercenary...

In hindsight it should always have been Carol who held the most concern. Sometimes it's easy to see the most obvious thing, and miss the more important subtleties. For a telepath, the shame is greater when discovering what one has missed. Upon her return to the States, she resolved to seek out Carol and-- what, simply apologize, beg forgiveness? Try to restore a friendship she might have destroyed? Whatever the original purpose, it's changed. Reports of psychological frailty, of a suspension from S.H.I.E.L.D., all sinking like dead weights into the pit of her bodyswapped stomach. For reasons both personal and professional, it seemed, she had forsaken the one person who might have needed her around - if only so she could take the fall.

But imagination runs wild by itself, and Psylocke is only too aware that she could worsen everything through procrastination. Through fear and doubt. Pushing it all away, she's taken the straightest, simplest route to a resolution. Not knowing what she'll find, what reception may await, she's found her way to the sad sight of the other woman's apartment. She's always thought to find rather a bird of a feather in Carol, and frowns the moment she slips silently inside, the picked lock popping closed behind her. A bagful of groceries is stuffed under one arm, and in spite of the purple hair pulled up beneath a flat cap, Betsy could pass for a casual visitor or resident. No ninja here; just a tall, graceful Asian woman in designer jeans and a crop top.

"Drinking?" Murmurs the kunoichi as she sets the bag down on a free counter-edge, pushing aside discarded bottles and food packaging with her free arm. "Can you even...?" There's no point finishing a question to no-one, so she merely sighs. When the load is unburdened, she begins to move through the apartment slowly, checking about for her apparently down-spiralled friend. Idly she begins to tidy up, out of some instinctive habit more than anything, even flipping open doors and cupboards until she spots a vacuum cleaner.

She goes as far to pull it out before stopping herself with an admonishing shake of the head, and moves instead to find a seat in the living area. She doesn't get overly comfortable - she neither feels she deserves to, nor wants to be in a less-than-ready posture when Carol arrives. So Psylocke merely settles in view of the door, posture upright and hands in her lap, to wait.

It's only a few more minutes after you sit down, that you can hear the key in the front door. As it opens, in slips Carol. Not the confident strides of a soldier.... just a slouching shell of the woman she has been... that she is capable of being. The door shuts and she tosses her keys onto the little side table beside the door. Then heads for the kitchen.... passing right by the living room where... she pauses and takes a step backward to look in. Doubletake much? She sees you there, and it's like -she- is the one who's a mindreader. She knows you're here, and thinks she knows why... because she is failing, so why not have someone else come tell her she's failing too? Thus far, every friend she had... Fury, everyone... in her eyes has turned on her. It's not true, but that's how she sees it. Well, everyone but Broo, but he doesn't really count, does he? She stands there... radiating tension, a combination of resignation and worry over what you're going to say to her. "Want a beer?" she asks as she gestures to the brown paper bag in her hands. Yeah, that's the best greeting she could come up with.

The thing about actually being a mindreader is that it's tantamount to cheating. Scanning the brainwaves of a would-be foe is one thing - or a friend when under pressure, in the heat of battle, when a telepath's gifts are needed for survival - but siphoning off the thoughts and feelings of someone you're supposed to be there for, to be human with and humane to...

Suffice to say, Psylocke is carefully suppressing her talents. Violet eyes settle on Carol with a little start at first, retaining the wary alertness of a concerned party even when she tries to relax. It doesn't take stolen thoughts to get a read on the hiatused agent. It's in her slouch, in the distance of her stare, and yes-- in the tension of so many muscles. The brown paper bag, then, is the equivalent of a sledgehammer where 'subtleties' are concerned.

Does Betsy want a beer? She almost laughs, her heart palpitating a little as she bites it back. And then she closes her eyes, breathing a sigh that contains so much; sadness and hurt, sure, but honest humour as well. This situation... everything... it's so ludicrous. A part of her has to laugh. They're supposed to be 'heroes'. They're supposed to be strong, and controlled.

They're supposed to be different, aren't they?

"You know what?" Her clipped, upper-crust British accent loses all the strain she thought she felt, as she pushes herself to her feet and moves closer in easy, gracious steps. A hand reaches out for the bag, attempting to gently disengage it from Carol before she reaches inside. "I actually do. For old time's sake?" She actually smiles then, the same wash of confliction emotion within it, "I'm not here to tell you what you should be doing, or should have done. I'm here to-- because--"

Perhaps it's better to just be simple and honest.

"I'm here because you're my friend."

A friend... that word has almost lost its meaning for her. After all, she needed her friends, and you were... well, you were gone. Fury turned his back on her, even folks at the Planet and whatnot were distant. In reality, they weren't, but her own jaded and depressed view had altered so that she saw things differently. She believed that she didn't deserve their friendship, so she percieved them as pulling away from her. A slow breath is taken, and released... the tinge of vodka on that breath before she released the bag to your grasp. At first though, she almost doesn't let it go. Anyone else, and she wouldn't, but you have a way of just cutting inside... and she relents. "Well, should be a six pack of Sam Adams in there. Grab one if you like." she remarks as she turns and heads to sit down on the sofa. No, will not grab a bottle... won't let -her- look down on me like everyone else is. There are times when being a telepath is a curse, when even though you are trying not to read a friend... sometimes things just jump out. Everything for Carol stems from a feeling of not deserving this. She never asked for super powers... well, that's not exactly true. But she didn't want them really. The biggest problem is that even though she was a well adjusted young adult.. that ended the day Rogue stole her memories. Even when Professor X restored them, they were like looking at a book, skimming over it... watching a movie. There was no real connection emotionally, so she had to start over... and then the first thing she experienced was being torn apart and experimented on by The Brood. So, now that she's come back from the brink of -that-, she returned to Earth and ... Latveria. Imagine a full grown adult, with about six years of emotional development, and you'll find Carol... trying to be strong. However... tired of trying anymore.

It's a word people throw around like it's meaningless, as though they have hundreds of such. Betsy can be an outgoing social butterfly when she wants to be; she considers those skills to be as important as her telepathy, especially used in tandem. But she's ultimately quite a private person, not given to forming myriad petty bonds and hurling terms of affection around like cheap candy. When she proclaims friendship or trust, when she confides love... she means it.

She also understands more already than she's ever let on. Surface thoughts, feelings, strong emotions do break through all the time - even now they're there, bubbling against her consciousness. Like a nagging child tugging upon her leg, hard to ignore. But they're used to hardship-- she, Carol, and everybody like them. Though it drains and wears, sometimes buckling the resolve, when they have their faculties they seem indomitable. Psylocke, for all the emotions brewing within, is at least in control today. She has to be now, for Carol if not for herself.

There's a flicker of something akin to admiration as Carol passes the bag and moves past her. She's not so much as dabbled in addiction herself - at least not to any form of manmade substance - but she has faced her own demons. Alternately losing and winning. She saw what happened to the other woman in Latveria, saw - and felt - the painful result. Though too weak herself to be capable of acknowledging anything beyond simple, primal survival, at the time...

She's had a chance to reflect. Guilt and shame aside, she feels sympathy. Empathy. Understanding. Insofar as she can come close to comprehending the trials that the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent has been through. Not one to vaingloriously rate her own experiences, she merely tries to relate, rather than assuming she can - rather than assuming they've all suffered 'the same'. Calmly she retrieves one of the proferred bottles, setting the rest of the bag aside for now - just a touch away from Carol's eyeline, but very reachable. She won't hide it away. Popping the cap on her own bottle with the back of a keyring, retrieved from her back pocket, she seats herself on the sofa.

"You know, I thought you might be angry with me. You'd deserve to be, if you wanted."

It's uttered with the same air that Carol offered a beer, casually broaching the subject of her own ill feeling - in part because it's not what's important, but also because it should be something they *can* talk about it. She doesn't want to evade issues.

"I was wrong about a lot. Latveria, it shouldn't have happened. Pointing fingers helps nobody, but for what it's worth..." Only now does she make eye contact again, toying with the neck of her beer as she does, somehow both furtive and confident in the way only Betsy can be. "You didn't fail anybody. It was a mess. People made mistakes. Others paid. We can't live in it forever. But I--" She hesitates, pursing her lips and looking away, a self-effacing roll of the eyes expressing her inward frustration at herself. "I wanted to say sorry. If not for what *happened*, then because I should have been there. Afterwards. I broke. I ran. I gave up when..."

Seeking eye contact again, she takes a pull from the beer, swallowing tightly.

"I gave up when I should have been strong, for the sake of others. All it's done is left with me feeling worse; like I don't belong, like I don't deserve... anything. My friends. My place. I exiled myself rather than face up to the truth of what I-- we'd done. So I'm sorry for that."

Eyeing the beer, Carol gets a bit of her stubbornness back. Pride maybe... denial of a problem possibly. Then your words reach her ears and she scowls a bit. "Bets..." she starts. "I wasn't angry with you... -you- got me out of that cell. You never gave up on me. You.... you did what you had to do. I've seen soldiers die, but that was soldiers. The people that came all that way... for us, weren't soldiers..." and her voice trails off....       "She was so young, and full of promise. Came all that way and Doom just -killed- her." Yeah, that is part of what's breaking her down. As you seek eye contact.. she gives it for a moment, her own eyes filled with .. not guilt so much as just regret and flat out self pity. "You know... Fury told me that I should stay out of uniform, and out of my costume... until I'm reinstated. I'm seriously wondering if I ever deserved to wear the costume -anyway-. I mean, I ... at first, I begged for the ability to save Mar-Vell... I wanted that and nothing else. The machine made that wish come true but after that... did I really deserve to have these abilities?" She looks down and fidgets with her hands. Right now, you can -see- her wanting nothing but a good stiff drink... liquid courage... "Did you know that one of my earliest emotional memories... once Charles restored past... I wished that I never had these powers in the first place. I didn't want to be anyone important. I just wanted to be a person and start over. Guess I failed at that -too-, eh?" she asks And then all of your followup conversation responds to her and she narrows her eyes, "Betsy.. shut.. up." she says. Some people are better at helping others than they are at helping themselves. Carol is one of those people. Suddenly, she's clear, level headed, and focused. "Shut your mouth, right now." she says in that 'voice'. The military officer's command voice. Her right hand pops up, index finger pointed your way, "You did what you had to do. Your intentions were right. You planned the op. We failed -you-. Now, you will not take this on yourself. Do I make myself understood?"

Betsy has had the same thoughts, regarding her position as an X-Man. Quite different from the rest of that lingering guilt and shame, it's a more pragmatic and well-reasoned approach she takes to the issue. Everything she strove to achieve apart from her fellow mutants under Xavier was a sidestep away from their core values. Sharing much, perhaps, in the idealogy; she believes in that, embraces it in full, in theory. But diverging on the method. Same result, different path-- and more dangerous, bringing peril both to those who walk it and those who would seek to prevent the walking. It's not their way. If she's willing to take it...

Carol's issues run deeper and more central to the embodiment of what - who - she is, however. That she resents her power resonates with the kunoichi in familiarity, but she cannot echo it completely. She's questioned her ability to wield well what she has, been scared of it at times, but ultimately it completes her. The difference? What she has is a quirk of nature. Kwannon's body, though - a freak therein - that's torn at her. Ironic that she's found some comfort in the form during their near-fatal excursion. But part of her always wanted it. To be the action hero.

She'd never wanted to be a 'real person', living in storybooks and fantasy. It's the thrill she desires; and it's purchased by her blessed curse as a mutant. A telepath. Without that she'd never have been useful enough to do what she's done, to be the person she has become.

It doesn't mean she doesn't understand, though. She's felt countless minds, explored souls and consciousnesses. The affliction of lost humanity is one she knows too well. To have strength beyond strength, and not want it, to be divorced from what one most wants because one is 'better' than that thing... especially through a fabrication, it rankles and stings. So, too, should having one's worst flaw hauled into the light of day, particularly on such a harsh and commanding note.

But Betsy barely misses a beat, eyes batting once before surprising warmth floods her gaze.

"There she is," comes the faint murmur, echoing a thought intended only for herself; with a tiny, teasing tweak of a smile still wrung through with everything else. Despite the playful touch of humour she's aware Carol has a point. It's already occurred how little right she has - has ever had - to punish herself so. She can't turn back time, but yes, she can change. Must? Her acknowledgement is a bowing of the head at first, smile disappearing as she states, "Understood."

There she hangs a moment, mulling over everything with eyes closed in mid-blink. When they open it's with the softest voicing of thoughts, moving swiftly away from herself and back to Carol-- she's spoken her piece, but was never here for herself, the honourbound need for apology notwithstanding. Violet eyes seek Carol's gaze again as she - seemingly absently - slips the bottle between her legs and out of sight. This is deeper than alcohol. More important.

"We don't really get to be people, do we?" It's more reflective than sad, a breathed sigh not lingering as she continues swiftly, more steadily, "At least it feels that way. But we are. You don't 'deserve' what's happened to you on any level; good or bad, you've earned the right to choose. But you've also earned the right to fail or succeed. On your own terms. That you've taken - take - responsibility makes me respect you so much... but you don't need to. You may feel you've failed yourself, and I can't tell you that you haven't. That's your choice, again. But never doubt that you've done enough good to *deserve* that choice. Latveria..."

She hesitates, frowning momentarily before shaking her head with a smile.

"She didn't die, Carol. Everybody who came made it out. The ones who ended up paying most of all..." It's hard to admit this, but she laughs as she does, once more at the ridiculous situations they find themselves in. An accompanying gesture brings the beer bottle up, gesturing around the forlornly dishevelled apartment and the empty containers strewn about. "You and I, because we put ourselves through it. Because we make terrible decisions."

Sometimes, the most reassuring thing can be acknowledging you're a stupid mess.

Nodding emphatically when you acknowledge her point, Carol leans back and crosses her arms under her breasts. She just takes a breath and shrugs her shoulders, "Maybe I -should- just start over. I've actually been thinking about going to the mansion and seeing if Rogue wants a powerup..." she mutters softly as her eyes fall. She sighs softly and then shakes her head, "You're right though, I -have- earned the right to choose. Maybe I just want to choose -not- to bother anymore. Sometimes, it's easier when I don't have to think about it.. or when I -can't- think about it all." And then she looks confused, "She was dead... I -saw- her. I know dead when I see it... it's something I am quite familiar with." And she shakes her head a bit, "So do me a favor, I don't mind brutal honesty, but don't try to tell me something I know is wrong."

Watching someone purely and frankly weigh the possibility of 'giving up' is never easy; in part because it's such a common feeling, that most either choose to ignore or accept so naturally that this furious battle with oneself never occurs. Psylocke was there herself, when she was dragged from the throne room of Castle Doom, unconscious and drooling. It was better and easier to bow her head and accept defeat, shame and blame, rather than stand up and keep striving.

A much pettier, more poorly-reasoned emotional decision than that facing Carol.

"I don't know what to tell you," Betsy responds with another shake of her own head, hitting both bases with the same admission. She may not know, but she'll at least try, lifting her shoulders and glancing aside for a thoughtful moment. "She lived. I was... wound up in myself, angry and lost, but I saw her. Not sure on the details, but she's certainly a mutant." Glancing back to Carol, she smiles tightly, lifting the beer bottle with a finger extended beyond the neck, the latter brought into tap-tapping contact with her temple. "I didn't need to be told that."

Taking a quick sip of the brew, she lowers it again, nestling it between her thighs as she sits forward. What she says next comes easier than she expected, as uncertain she is about where to guide the other woman. But... the truth is she respects her too much to do more than counsel, as sensibly and directly as she can. Once more, it comes down to the simplest facts.

"Whatever choice you want to make, I'm here for you. We don't have to suffer together, or strive for some higher purpose; sometimes, just *being* is enough. If this--" Again she gestures at the room and the empty bottles, this time simply with a nod, "Is what you need, then I understand. But I hope you choose anything else. Walk away from S.H.I.E.L.D., from the X-Men, from everything we do, and I understand thrice over. Having 'power' doesn't mean you have a responsibility to use it. We're all just people, my dear friend." A mixture of sigh and laughter bubbles from her throat, falling husky as it catches her off-guard. "With all the good and bad that brings. Don't forget it."

The strong woman who was so forceful just a moment ago... finally starts to realize that she really is -not- in this alone. You can see and feel the change coming over her... and Carol just closes her eyes, leaning her head back as she unfolds her arms and lifts them in a mildly helpless gesture. "I don't know -what- I need..." she admits. "I don't even know what I want. I only know that I -don't- want to deal with this anymore." And then it hits her.. her eyes snap open and she pulls her head down and stares into your eyes again, "You saw her alive?" she asks. "Are you sure she's alive?" There's a desperate bit of hope in that voice... a -need- to believe....

Never alone. If there's anything Psylocke has learned from her time amongst the X-Men, it's that nobody ever should be; they all share a common ground, and she's learned to extend this beyond a brief, dangerous concept of 'us' and 'them'. Mutants and humans share the same genetic base - others, still, share ideologies and beliefs that make them just as recognizable. The mettle of an individual is in who, not what, they are. Perhaps even in who they'd be if they could.

"I'm sure," Betsy replies with conviction, though there's an edge to it that belies complete reassurance; as with so much in their lives, it's always more complex. "It doesn't change what she did-- what they all did, and what might have happened had Von Doom played a different hand. But we're not responsible for the death of one brave girl. That's something, isn't it?" One shoulder lifts in a shrug, the accompanying smile carrying warmer weight. "I need to speak with Pete anyway. If you want to come with me, perhaps he can give us more information..."

She doesn't add 'if it would help', but the sentiment is strongly implied.

"Or, I'm happy to be the messenger girl. I'm not telling you what to do, what you should or shouldn't face." Her voice lowers, a frown creasing her brow as she confesses, "I hate seeing you like this, almost enough I want to *make* it right--" There's no need to say how, but she immediately shakes her head anyway. "But I wouldn't. This is something you have to do yourself, if not alone. I can stay with you; talk to people, if you need me to, tell them you're okay..."

A brow arches at that. She's doing her best to sound neither condescending nor pushy.

"We can just be... normal, for a bit. With no pressure otherwise. Work out how you really feel."

There is an element of gratitude for what you're offering, but deep down... there's a little girl as well as a soldier who -wants- to be told what to do. Who craves the discipline and order... the sort of structure that having someone 'in charge' supplies. That desire batters on your mental defenses like a siege engine even as Carol just ... breathes. Her eyes flicker towards the beer between your legs, and she starts to crumble. She leans her head back again and the tears start to silently flow down the sides of her cheeks and drip onto her shoulders and such. "At least she's alive." she mutters... truly, Dazzler's death was the part that cascaded for her. Indeed, she'd seen soldiers die in battle, but this was the first one where she had the emotional memory of the event. So for her... it was a lot like her first time all over again. There are quite a few -firsts- she's having of late too. "How I really feel? Like shit Betsy. Like shit. I feel like I'm dying a little more every day... like everything I do, just makes it worse, and then when I try to fix that, it just makes -that- worse."

Command. Leadership. It's not something Psylocke could be called bad at; she has many natural qualities that lend themselves to it, has acted in that role enough to be called something of an expert - at motivating, with empathy and wisdom, but also in ruling with an iron fist. She remembers being Lady Mandarin, and holding an underworld in her fearsome thrall.

But in the light of Latveria, in the negative thoughts upon which she still can't help but inwardly dwell, it seems as though she has as much right to order as she does in being an X-Man. The urge to turn away bubbles up again, to the annoyance of her greater sum, to the near fury of the portion of her consciousness unable not to monitor that psychic resonance. Which increases exponentially, until she *can't* ignore it. She draws a long breath through her nose, watching Carol's tears fall for a moment, free hand clenching to a fist at her opposite flank.

"Of course you do," she whispers in immediate reply, allowing her eyes to shut as she draws on what *she* needs to get through. Even without that compelling mental plea, she'd have reached the same conclusion now - that she must take charge sooner rather than later. "And I'm sorry," the hardness already enters her tone as she offers the apology, opening out her clenched hand and pressing fingertips decisively against the sofa beside her. Violet eyes open and stare askance at Carol. "But... one way or another, you have to try harder. If you can't do that unassisted, then I'll help you, but you *need* to help me do that. One step at a time, Carol..."

Standing, she sets her bottle on the nearest surface, letting the freed hand glide to her hip.

"First, we clean this place up. All you're seeing is the trappings of your perceived failure. You can't be 'normal' like this; you can't be anything but miserable. Get up, and we sort this out - together - before we do *anything* else. Do I make myself understood?"

Familiar words, uttered with an upraised brow and the echo of irony. But serious, all the same.

Up until those last two words, Carol keeps opening her mouth to try to retort or argue. Though she keeps getting rolled right over. When you go into leadership mode, even the Colonel here tends to feel like a very small bump with a steamroller driving over it. She keeps lifting a hand, or trying to speak. It just doesn't work. Then those last two words ring out and she clamps her mouth shut. Then she inclines her head and smirks a bit, "Well, your sense of justice... I must say.. is poetic at the very least." "So, clean the place up then?" she asks. "After that, a shower. What do you suggest after cleaning up the place, and myself ma'am?" she asks in a very respectful tone. the sort of tone one uses to address a superior officer.

It would be impossible not to laugh, if the reason for and possible consequences of this 'act' were any less severe and painful. Psylocke slides into it comfortably enough that she can suppress a smirk, snort or giggle. She merely inclines her head in acknowledgement of the former, then draws herself a little higher, glancing around the room before looking back to Carol with both brows raised now, and mouth a hard line until she speaks.

"After that? I suggest," to rhyme with 'order', "You* contact every last person who's been worried for your wellbeing, and assure them that you're on your way to a recovery. You can call, e-mail, or send them a telegram; either way, they need to know that you're at least not going to be lying in a stupor feeling sorry for yourself." Her tone shifts, head canting a little to one side as she adds, tone softening just enough for the meaning to carry, "And so do you."

Her voice - and her gaze - softens a touch further, though each word is still spoken with weight.

"Conviction, soldier, is the key to victory."

'And,' she stops herself from adding, 'I hear ice cream helps.' It won't all be so difficult.