2012-11-02 Dynamic Entry

Rain. The longer she spends in Gotham, the sooner this is going to become something Psylocke simply accepts as part of the scenery. Today seems worse than others, though, vast pelting sheets of frozen misery slamming the street corners, driving a frantic rhythm against narrow window panes, and flooding the gutters with dank filth. It's not a day to be trapped outside, least of all surrounded by the concurrent *rattatatta* of submachine gun fire.

Clad in attire she foolishly assumed would be featherproof - light canvas cargo pants, and a featherweight waterproof jacket designed to keep off moisture rather than chill - the Violet Butterfly finds herself suppressing the urge to shiver as she inches herself along the side of a squat, ugly city car parked alongside one of Gotham's more notorious streets. She's been here longer than she intended; a covert investigation into a smuggling operation based out of a store-front nearby turning vicious when one gang unleashed hell on another. Caught in the crossfire, the X-Woman was gradually drawn into it by apparent necessity.

She's not convinced of the misfortune of her circumstance; she smells a rat.

Which does nothing to make her current situation any easier. Having offed a good portion of the surviving gang - a slick, well-equipped band of reticent badasses primarily hailing from Asian stock - she's facing only a trio of men now. Two are close enough she could take them out in an instant, were they not now spooked by her successful efforts to lay low their 'colleagues'. Panicked, they're firing off bursts of hot lead without rhythm or reason, laying out a patternless covering pattern across the street. They can't be predicted; and that's dangerous.

The other is stationed on the rooftop of the vacated building. He's been picking his targets slowly, a dab if cautious hand with his high-powered sniper rifle, but he's keeping her pinned down right now despite being utterly immobile. A line of drool trickles from his mouth; her ongoing telepathic suggestion to take a standing nap consuming a great deal of her focus. She's getting tired, too, too much so to simply extend her range of thrall to his friends. There's a point where she can't press herself any more without losing control physically...

Alone, the last thing Betsy can afford is to be curling up insensible on the streets of Gotham.

What she CAN do, is try to relax her grip on the man enough that the suggestion holds despite her efforts. A tiny window is all she needs to cut the odds from 3-to-1 against, to a clearly winnable near-victory at all square. Bracing herself, she plunges into the astral from her position behind the car, drowning out the scream of bullets against cheap metal framework. A beat later, the sniper starts to come to, batting his eyes with all the sensibility of a drunk awakening from last night's torrential binge. And then Psylocke is diving down, across...

It should be easy enough from here, in theory.

In practice, she comes up against a sudden brick wall. A flash of feedback so strong she's not even sure it can be psychic in nature - she knows of precious few who could sting her so badly without apparent focus. It's as though suddenly, there's something there that wasn't there a moment ago - and should /not/ be there at all. Not ever. Used to the workings of the human mind, of neural pathways and the signature they indelibly leave behind, Betsy has never felt anything quite like this. The nearest comparison she can draw, as she sucks in a desperate breath and struggles to remain conscious, is the manifestation of the Siege Perilous.

The very thing that almost killed her. That put her in this new body.

"NANI!?"

Her consciousness rebounding inside its physical shell, she's dimly aware of the man's cry.

In a world a dimension away, there is a kiss. Tender, deep and true. It does not last long enough; could not last long enough. For what had been shared here, in a realm as mad as any, filled only with desperation, hate and strife... had touched even the boundless rage of the true ruler of the Negative Zone. And as the lingering kiss signifies the end, it leaves behind a remorseful, growing frenzy. For it dawns upon that awe-inspiring monster that what had been shared, could never come to pass again. That the time is over, and done.

"Goodbye, Ahmyor."

BLINK!

Ordinarily, her control is better. But not this time. Caught in the cresting wave that is the destruction of the Annihilation Cannon, the strange energies swirl and toss the purple-skinned girl as though she is a leaf caught in a hurricane. She can't control it! All she could think of was home-- HOME! But home is a trillion universes away, slipping through her fingers in a moment when she isn't even certain that she has fingers. And instead reality is tearing itself asunder, and she is aware that she has a head again, and a body, and this body is descending through the air at an incredible speed.

And there is a man beneath her.

The startled cry of the thug is not mirrored by the girl. The mighty CRASH of her arrival doesn't daze her that much. Because she's aware, immediately, that he has a sniper rifle, and every instinct she has is screaming at her that she can't, stop. She can't afford to recognize what she's just been through, or she will falter, and die.

Her knee jabs up hard, throwing the gun away, and her fingers grasp the sharp-looking pink javelin of crystal. She's running on instinct. Pure instinct, and in the slave-pens of Apocalypse, instinct can be sharpened into a very deadly tool indeed. All the hopes of Xavier are nothing compared to that brutal reality. And now the mutant girl, the dimensional traveller known as Blink is staring into the eyes of a man who could not be more scared, and the crystal is cool against his throat. It couldn't cut unless she wanted it to, it is a solidified spacial rift, but he doesn't know that. And her voice is surprisingly firm, for someone who has been through what she has just been through.

"Where. Am. I?"

Control, it seems, is quite the bugbear.

Struggling for the return of her own, Betsy Braddock may only be dimly aware of the man's instinctive plea for understanding - a match, in its way, for the same primally-keen sense that empowers the errant plane-hopper - but the new presence RAGES against her senses. All-consuming at first, by the third intake of breath, the sixth repetition of a calming mental command to still the mind and relax the body, Psylocke becomes all too aware where the source of her discomfort lies. Or stands, weapon in hand. No, more; a weapon herself.

Finally unable to keep that shudder from her toned frame, the violet-eyed telepath thrusts herself upright and uses this single moment of clarity to harness faith and power in one lethal combination. She's not the only one distracted by the manifestation of Blink, a break in gunfire gifting her all the opportunity she needs to move like the strike of lightning. Her mind aflame, she relinquishes her telepathic gifts in favour of pure, trained speed, vaulting the vehicle and springing through the driving rain with a lunging, skidding elbow aimed across the bonnet of the utility van used by her hesitant foes. Cartilage is broken before it audibly *snaps*.

One, delirious drumbeat later she's rolling off one well-muscled shoulder to sweep the second man from his crouch to his back, a peal of lead roasting the air beside her ear. It was tight even with the pink-skinned traveller's intervention, but 'tight' can easily be translated to 'enough'. There's a broken gurgle from under her stamping foot, and the job is done.

Or not. Violet eyes cant upward, narrowed against fierce raindrops.

"W-Wakaranai desu..."

Blink's victim is only partway through his stammered response in that very moment, teeth gritted and body trembling no matter how much he wills it not to. Like Betsy, he's rattled; but unlike her he has absolutely no reasonable analogue for what just happened. People shouldn't /appear/ like that. The mutant girl's bizarre appearance is almost a comfort in the circumstance, a comfort grossly lessened by the presence of that glowing, ethereal spear's tip. At least he remembered to be polite in his diction, though it would help more if it weren't a desperate and semi-coherent attempt to cover for the foolhardy action he attempts in the aftermath.


 * snikt*

It's a sound heard around the world, but rarely from a drooling Japanese man, as the imported gangster flicks his foot and drives it upward. A sprung steel blade glints in the Gotham gloom, bearing a sharp tip for the outer flank of Blink's exposed thigh.

Blink doesn't speak Japanese, even if she does know enough to recognize it. Strangely, language just didn't seem to be a problem in her travels until now, but the meaning is completely lost on her. Until, that is, the unfortunate gangster decides to translate into the universal language of violence. Mister Creed had taught Blink well enough exactly what it is you should do when you hear the sound 'snikt'.

The girl stabs forwards with the crystal, and in that moment, there is a second...

BLINK!

And he is suddenly three feet above her, and to the left. She doesn't want him gone, and she doesn't want him unconscious; she wants answers. And, after what she's just been through, if she was really honest with herself... she wants to vent on him for trying to stab her, too.

It is her fist which welcomes him back to reality, smashing into the base of his spine before she wraps her other arm around his throat, and drags him down beneath her. She's smaller, weaker, she /shouldn't/ be able to manhandle a guy like this... but Sabretooth has taught her well, and as her knee drives his into the rain-slick concrete beneath him, the ruthlessly, relentlessly brutal nature of her fighting style helps communicate - perhaps even more than the sudden wrenching of space about him - that trying to fight her is a REALLY BAD IDEA.

"Japan?" She demands, trying to think as best she can. If she's in Japan, where abouts? It isn't the Japan of her home; there are too many tall buildings and this man is clearly a flatscan. He wouldn't dare to try and stab her if they were there. But where would she go from here? She doesn't even know which direction she should try looking in to find America, and shared language is going to be very necessary if she wants to communicate in something other than pained screaming.

Motions that seem nigh-effortless to a fighter like Blink are a kaleidoscopic rush of delirium to a merely 'well-trained' human. The unfortunate man opens his mouth to scream a defiant, dying scream in the same instant that he's teleported several impossible feet away, apparently alive but the breath stolen utterly from his throat; along with the defiance from his heart. A grunt, a burbling intake of breath into a windpipe that can no longer contain it, and he's down. The only response to Blink's query is an asthmatic *huffhuffhuff* as he hyperventilates.

"Gotham City."

The answer comes a few seconds later, likely as Clarice is still sorting through her thoughts. There is no physical interposition; the cool, almost unnaturally calm voice cuts in from the opposite corner of the rooftop. It's taking a not-insignificant portion of her iron willpower for Psylocke to keep her identifiably British tone clipped and measured, so too to restrain the burning adrenaline in her veins. Fortunately, she has will to spare. On turning, Blink finds her stood there with arms loosely folded, one hand hanging loose against her left flank.

Soaked from head to toe, Betsy would look like the proverbial drowned rat if she had any less poise. As their eyes meet across the remnants of this Gotham warzone, she appears more the unyielding conqueror, rising through strife and turbulence to stand sure-footed at the apex of humanity. It's an impression both fitting and brutally ironic.

"I wouldn't recommend killing him. Doesn't go down too well around here."

A quirk of the kunoichi's lips carries a dark hint of humour that doesn't reach her eyes. The X-Woman is otherwise occupied studying this newcomer very closely; and attempting to regain her shattered senses, lest she be the next on the receiving end of that coiled fury.

The criminal is thrown down, and Blink stands up. She does not look as calm or composed as Psylocke, because, well, she's been through hell. And now she's a little annoyed. The thug starts trying to crawl away and Blink doesn't have any desire to stop him. It isn't as though he could really get away if she needed him, and now she's looking Psylocke right in the eye.

... Gotham City, that's America isn't it? She'd never been, they say there's weird things in those husks...

"I'm not a killer." The purple-skinned girl says, and slowly, something like realization seems to dawn on her. She takes a step forward, and her brow furrows, "Wait a moment..." The ninja is different. For a start, she's not wearing a mask, but, the voice, features, and the hair...

"Psylocke!" The girl exclaims, happy to see a familiar face even with all the mounting evidence that this, isn't exactly the case. It has been so long since she's seen someone she knows, that she decides to just set that to the side, and hope that she's right; that things will start making sense again any moment now. "How did you wind up in Gotham? Is Magneto here?" But, there's that nagging doubt. The buildings aren't crumbling. The rain tastes too pure; too unpolluted, and since when would anyone ANYWHERE in America care about killing?

This isn't her Gotham.

This ... this probably isn't her Psylocke...

Very emphatically not reaching out with her mind's eye to better explore the nature and motivations of this mysterious stranger, Psylocke is forced to rely on her mundane senses and good, old-fashioned human wisdom to see her through the encounter. Under other circumstances, this might be perfectly safe and steady - she's a trained intelligence operative, after all - but the current climate is building toward something she fears and loathes. Even if Blink's arrival hadn't short-circuited the better parts of her brain and put her on guard...

She'd be a ticking timebomb.

Telepathy isn't required to see the oddity in Clarice's reaction to a somewhat-familiar face, nor identify that is the spirit of familiarity at work. Rather than be pleased in turn, or surprised but ready to gently explain the girl's mistake, her immediate reaction is a dark frown-- and the subsequent questioning causes violet eyes to narrow to /slits/. Lips pursing in the instant before she suddenly, brutally explodes into motion, there's no pleasure whatsoever in the expression of Betsy Braddock. Paranoia. Anger. The promise of violence.

An instant later, it's there, her passage across the rooftop made in a telekinetically-enhanced flash that sends butterfly wings of electric fire blazing to either flank, left in the kunoichi's wake as she covers the distance in a microsecond. Stopping just short of Blink, she's keenly intent upon matching gazes with the confused, mauve young thing in front of her, before she drives forth an open palm with all that gathered momentum behind it. She may not be the Psylocke of a future yet to come, but she's just as capable; just as fast and just as strong. What may be troubling, is that the hard edge in those violet eyes is also familiar.

It's just never been aimed at Blink.

"Do you /expect/ him to be?" She hisses past her outthrust arm, seeking a death grip. "Who are you?"

Blink is naturally paranoid. You don't survive very long, in her world, if you aren't. But she's still never faced down Psylocke before, and she honestly hadn't been expecting that name to cause such a violent reaction. The burst of fire registers, but before Blink can gather her will enough to put herself out of harm's way, she chokes and doubles over. The blow knocks the wind out of her, and in the next moment, she's in Psylocke's grip.

Not... good...!

"Someone, you, don't, know, apparently."

The words are hard to say, because of the lack of that whole breathing thing. But the reason for them becomes obvious. If Psylocke knew who she was, she would know better than to try and put her in a grapple. There's a blinding flash of pink light, and the woman has a choice; she can maintain her hold, in which case they will both end up on the other side of the roof, most likely with their positions reversed... or she can let go, and Blink will get there on her own.

Either way, she's struggling for breath, and trying hard to stay calm, "I don't, want to fight you!" But, what can she say to defuse this situation? Psylocke is probably one of the best people to answer her questions, but, she doesn't think she's in any fit shape to take her on right now, and if the other woman gets serious, she's going to be forced to flee and hope for the best!

Rather than flinch from the explosion of vibrant colour, Psylocke possesses the presence of mind - or the sheer instinct - to simply bat her eyelids. The moment of reprieve saves her vision, gaze rewidening with ready alarm as she hunts for her escaped prey. Her raised hand pivots inward, clenching momentarily to a fist just above her hip, before unfurling once the exotic mutant's words are delivered. The other hand remains aloft, cautious for the moment.

"I don't want to fight at all. Life doesn't always present that choice."

Her own delivery carries the graceful weight of cutting steel over just a hint of melancholy, a neat metaphor for the warrior's soul that Betsy now bears to match her newfound shell. Lowering her guard with a soothing outbreath, she starts across the rooftop in carefully measured steps, the rain pitter-pattering off the light material of her jacket. Sweeping back the slick fall of her hair, she comes to a halt a few feet from Clarice, sinking low onto powerful haunches.

"You're tired," she remarks coolly, and quiet, tone almost lost in the environmental noise. "You're confused and alone. You've..." Hesitating, she dares to reach out with her telepathy, as furtive as a child picking fruit from an ornery neighbour's orchard. "Never been here. I'm right, aren't I? And yet you speak as if you know me. You speak of my enemy as though he were a friend; or at least an ally. Let me ask again, child, before I try and take it for myself."

Canting her head, she bores that violet gaze deeper into Blink. Her mind's eye ready to go further, and one hand - close to the ground - prickling with a stray mote of telekinetic energy, a stormy burst of electric fire that fries the very rain to smoking mist.

"Who *are* you?"

"Your... enemy."

The words are repeated with a heavy heart. Standing up straighter, Blink doesn't move her hands towards the javelins on her back. She's fast, but she is tired, and Psylocke's weapons are infinitely closer to hand. For a moment, the purple girl's lips press together tighter, and then she speaks. She sounds a lot more confident in herself, but it is a front. If she has to, she can get away, but none of this is making /sense/. She needs to know what is going on.

"My name is Blink." She says, "To you, anyway. I'm a member of Magneto's X-Men. Where I'm from, you are, too. But I'm guessing... something went wrong when I tried to get home."

Her fingers flex. It isn't as menacing as Psylocke's crackling power, but there's no doubt that she doesn't trust the woman, either. There's danger, here, and she's going to have to rely on her reflexes if she's going to get out of this with her hide intact, if Psylocke really is her enemy.

"So yes. You're right. I don't think this is home. There's too many buildings still standing. And even though I don't think Magneto knows the /meaning/ of the word friend..."

And there's a bitter amusement in her voice which says, more than anything else, that she's being completely truthful. Especially when it twists into a, more remorseful whisper.

"He's our leader, and he's saved all our lives more times than I can count."

"More than he's endangered ours?"

There's no lingering echo of that same humour in Betsy. Not now. Watching like the wariest of predators throughout Blink's response, she's aware from her cautious efforts to read the girl that there is no lie here; but the truths spoken are profoundly disturbing. Not daring to plunge deeper into the thoughts of one who almost knocked her senseless simply by hopping dimensions - and there's another point of contention - the X-Woman is uncertain how to proceed. Considering the mauve-skinned mutant a moment longer, she draws and releases a breath, then stands.

"We can safely say you're not in Kansas any more... Blink." The name falls into place like a headstone, heavy and portentious. She didn't fail to catch the spirit in which it was offered. "And everything you've told me makes me doubt that you're anything but trouble. I've done things I'm not proud of; I have black depths to which I've still not plunged, so the news that we've fought alongside one another..." Her lips purse, and there's another flare of that psychic blade. She's rapidly weakening herself, but determined not to show it. "It means nothing."

It makes her warier still. She's faced her own ghost already, and it almost finished her.

"What I can tell you, is that the Magneto of this world," How strange it sounds to say that, "Isn't just my enemy, but the enemy of my friends. Friends of yours too, perhaps." One side of her mouth quirks up at that, carrying the wry suggestion of information, without once stating it. This girl seems to know too much already-- easing her toward the conclusion that Psylocke is in good standing with the X-Men here, too, gives her little more. "Tell me about myself. You denied that you were a killer, Blink-- but what of the Psylocke that you knew?"

Blink's exhaustion is catching up to her. The adrenalin is no longer coursing through her system, and that means that her remorse is starting to catch up with her. She listens; her life has beaten into her that if you don't listen, you're dead. But how much she hears? That's another question entirely. She's bitter. It feels as though she's torn out her own heart. All she wants is to be home, to be safe, and to be with the people she loves.

"I don't know a thing about your world."

She lowers her head. Rain streaks down and, that helps to hide the tears. She isn't a girl who cries easily, but there's only so much that she can take. She isn't ready to close her eyes yet, either. Perhaps she knows just enough about the Psylocke of her world to know that she shouldn't tempt fate.

"Do the people here all demand explanations in the freezing rain?" She asks, quietly, "Or can we get to some shelter and then talk?" She comes back to herself, then. Listening to that. What would Mr. Creed think? Hearing her speak like that, asking for permission from someone who seems determined to view her as an enemy?

"Because I'm /going/ to get under a roof one way or another. But if you know where to find one, that'd be quicker."

Oh yes, there's still some spirit in her. She's damned if she's going to let herself be intimidated just because Psylocke wants her to be.

Stern as the kunoichi can be, harsh as she may oftentimes seem...

She's not a heartless woman. Not in the least. When the displaced mutant begins to cry, that residual telepathic scan is suddenly feeding a great deal less vagary and confusion; or so it seems, perhaps an unfortunate side-effect of the latent nurturing instinct that Betsy's never quite done away with. A part of her wants to reach out and provide some measure of comfort, though it's a small voice amidst a very cautious cacophony. The more rational portions of her mind calmly inform her that if she's not stabbed in the throat for her troubles, she'll only end up causing greater confusion. Her alternate self could be anything-- indeed, anyONE.

"No," she murmurs at the downcast girl, "I don't suppose you do."

Where does she begin to explain? To friend, or enemy? That remains the pressing question.

"I've always been an advocate of celerity," she admits as the exotic traveller attempts to press back; a show of empassioned strength that actually impresses the X-Woman. Enough to relax her manner, imbuing the comment with a gentle wit that just about touches those violet eyes. "And I suspect that if I lower my guard for a second you'll go ahead without me." Levelly studying Blink a moment, she dips her forehead in a nod toward the rear of the building. "There's an opened skylight about fifteen yards over there. I don't have the benefit of your... talents, but since you know what /I'm/ capable of, get inside however you please. I'll meet you there."

Though not fully confident she can catch Blink with a telekinetic blast at a range greater than her demonstrated teleportation allows, Betsy certainly sounds it. Standing still ready in the driving rain, she keeps her gaze upon the troubled girl until she's either moved, or 'blinked'. Then she moves to follow, keeping to her word and stated principle of speed to find the interior within seconds. It helps to have a telepathic beacon to follow.

The inside of the building is surprisingly comfortable, for the district. Or it would be with a few less bullet holes and unconscious, bleeding bodies. The first floor ceiling has been stripped out entirely, leaving a vaultlike chamber into which tables and chairs have been installed, along with a wide, battered antique bar in a pleasing turn-of-the-century style. Heated with oil, it's warm enough, the bar and neighbouring kitchen area well-stocked.

A lovely place for a passive-aggressive exchange.

Or, you know, a wholly aggressive one.

BLINK!

If you're surprised by that, you haven't been paying attention.

In a strange kind of way, though, Blink does feel... better, when she's inside. The bleeding and battered bodies, the ruined terrain. It reminds her of home. And some part of her is vaguely disgusted by the fact that it does, but most of her is just glad to be in somewhere warm and dry. Even if she doesn't trust Psylocke at all, she can buy at least ten minutes to sit down, rest, and then... well, she could be five hundred miles away in the blink of an eye.

So she does that. Choosing a chair with less bulletholes, she sits down, and leans on the table. Grateful to let the fatigue flow out of her limbs. Her eyes close, and she sighs softly. It'll be at least a few seconds before Psylocke catches up, and she takes every moment of the break to compose herself. She's NOT going to cry again. She's going to pull herself together, because she can push down the fear and the mourning, the regret, the pain, and let herself feel it later.

"The Psylocke I know is a survivor." She says, the moment that she becomes aware of Psylocke again. "We all are. But none of this is going to make any sense to you unless you understand... the basics."

Her eyes open again, at last, and she looks directly at Psylocke. All weakness, all doubt, pushed out. She can be surprisingly intense when she wants to be, and right now, her bearing is all business.

"So. Does the name, Apocalypse, mean anything to you?"

If home truly is where the heart lies...

Well, Blink has perhaps drawn her own conclusion to that tired proverb. The Violet Butterfly is no more perturbed by the surroundings - and not solely because she caused her share of the destruction - as she slips gracefully through the skylight and flips to the floor below with an almost lazy turn of that lithe, agile form. Her landing is only ruined a little by the cascade of collected raindrops and the sodden squelch of her flooded boots. Her gaze alights on Blink as though she already knew where to look; mostly because she does.

"I'm not sure it's possible to be me," she comments, stretching to her full height and reaching to pull down the zip at the fore of her waterproof. "And not be a survivor." The garment hits the floor in an almost immediate puddle of its own, leaving the kunoichi stood in a dark sports bra patched with moisture despite its discarded covering. Stepping past the table beside Blink, she makes for the far side of the bar, where a tank of hot water bubbles away unattended.

"/Apocalypse/."

Her shoulders stiffen as she echoes that in a harsh near-whisper, turning about to meet Blink's gaze with narrowed eyes. It seems she doesn't need to confirm some level of familiarity, but with a shake of her head she begins to relate a brief summary of what she knows.

"He rose from mythology, as ancient as man himself. A vast intellect, overwhelming powers, and absolutely no ability to bend the knee - even when facing a united front of some of our best and brightest. I've never faced a foe quite so terrifying, Blink." That admission contains the first hint of real weakness Psylocke has shown thus far, a frown touching her brow that's almost tender - and entirely unbidden. "But," she rejoins with a sigh, turning back to the bar to gather a pair of cups and a spoon. Busywork covering for emotion. "Apocalypse was defeated. We never found out what he was, beyond hearsay and educated guesses. What matters is, he's dead."

That's punctuated by the *tink* of spoon striking saucer. "Hot chocolate?"

"And you can't kill him."

It is said with a kind of, resignation. Maybe it isn't true here, but Blink wouldn't bet on it. If Apocalypse is Apocalypse, he is immortal, endless, eternal, and sure to make his return. To conquer and enslave, dominate and destroy. Because that is what Apocalypse is. He is the end. To hear that he could be delayed is, surprising enough... but Blink doesn't believe for a moment that he would simply let himself be destroyed.

"But, if you did, then, you're lucky. It would explain a lot." She exhales slowly, letting some of the tension flow out of her. "In my world, he crushed almost all resistance. Conquered the world. Most flatscans have been, killed, or are used as experiment stock. Most mutants are, too, for that matter. But Magneto gathered us together. He..." Her hands rest over one another as she considers how to explain it. How she feels about that man. "He has to keep the wider picture in mind." She says, at last. And the tone should say more than enough. The Magneto of Blink's world may well be infinitely more pleasant than the Magneto of this one, but he is a hard man. And one that Blink does not always agree with.

"I thought I found a way to recruit allies against Apocalypse in, another dimension. I met, a, a... man." Her voice cracks again. Why is this so hard? Why does she care so much? Ahmyor had, betrayed her - hadn't he? Maybe, if she could believe that for even a second, the loss would hurt less.

"And then I wound up here."

Just, don't think about it Blink. Don't let yourself dwell. This woman is still your enemy. She's still probably looking for a reason to cut your head off. Don't trust her.

Her voice is so small. "... what's chocolate?"

Even as she says it, Psylocke isn't entirely convinced herself. How many times have they defeated Magneto, Juggernaut or so many others? This seems a world where no being of sufficient power and bloody-minded drive can ever be laid low for long. History moves in circles; this is a truth she firmly believes, and if even one megalomaniac threat is eliminated, there will be another. The perilous future facing mutantkind now is just further evidence of that. She's not heavy-hearted enough to declare the world doomed, or ever to simply surrender...

But she can sympathize utterly with those who do.

"A good man cannot always do what seems right," whispers Betsy, musing the opening of this unfolding tale as she focuses upon the most familiar element. That may also prove most alien. "Only what is. Morality's not so simple as we wish it were." Turning to face Clarice, she examines the girl from her position leaned againt the antique counter, gently rapping the spoon against her bottom lip before setting it aside. The girl's voice cracks, and she feels her heart melt just a little more; knowing the pain of loss, and feeling it too intently. 'A man'. That says everything, to her. She could tell a story of her own that cuts off with those very words.

"I'm sorry," is all she says initially, uselessly, while busying herself once more in turning away to fill cups and rebalance them on chipped saucers. That tiny, emotionally-loaded question hangs for several long moments, until the X-Woman makes a swift decision and reaches into a squat jar beside the water heater. Returning to the table with the practiced gait of someone who's balanced a hundred thousand brimming beverages and lived to tell the tale...

Before setting one down in front of Blink, and the other nearer herself.

"I think you're in for a treat," she promises with her first genuine smile, "If we're going to kill each other, let's at least do it on warm, cosy stomachs." With that, she unfurls her fingers to flick a marshmallow into the steaming liquid. It lands with a gentle *plop*, bobbing merrily. Blink's pink. Of course she'll like hot chocolate and marshmallows. Seating herself, Betsy reaches for her own, mallow-less cup and swirls it thoughtfully.

"So," she begins quietly, "In your world, only the mutants survive? Do we... try to save them?"

It is a bizarre twist. To discuss such heavy things over sweet, delicious hot chocolate. Blink has never tasted anything like it before, and even if she doesn't totally trust Psylocke, she desperately wants to. It is a familiar face, even with an unfamiliar brain behind it, and she sorely needs one of those to lean on right now. It even draws a wan little smile back onto her features. She really doesn't want to have to fight, or run. Not right now.

"There are human survivors. Resistors, slaves, even some traitors who are strong enough to impress Apocalypse." Its just the way things are. She relays the information because, it is easier to do it than not. There's little emotion there. It is when she thinks of saving them, that she has to turn back towards her own painful memories.

"We try." Is all she can say. "I was, raised in the slave pits. I'd have probably died there, or become one of Apocalypse's... minions, if Mr. Creed hadn't saved me." The thought of herself as an Apocalypse loyalist. She hates it. But she's not so naive as to believe that she would rather have died than sold herself to him. She, is also a survivor. Above everything else. She may well have done it.

"We fight as much as we can." She continues, "And, we have little victories, here or there. But it is Apocalypse's world. We can't afford to save everyone." She feels sick even admitting that. But it is right. Her own inability to leave the victims of the Culling to their fate had been the catalyst for her fight with Magneto; the conflict which may be responsible for ensuring the last words she had spoken to that brave and noble soul were angry, hate-filled, and bitter.

"I, said I'm not a killer." She says, at last. "That's true. I, don't kill if I don't have to. But. We don't have, the luxury of choice." The sweet, delicious liquid is brought back to her lips, to indulge in the luxury which has, apparently, been thrust upon her.

"This world, though. Are there... people who /do/?"

People who have never had to take another life.

Maybe she died, and this is heaven.

It's a form of disparity Psylocke has quickly become accustomed to, that the comforting and horrifying can swim in the same murky pool. The darkness of her humour was not always thus; and this is a development she cannot blame on the ruminations of the Hand or the soul-destroying manipulation that brought her to the abandoned body of Kwannon. Like Blink, her shift from gentility has been through the sum of experiences both confusing and outright harrowing. She was merely fortunate enough to have a very agreeable inception.

A childhood quite unlike Blink's. This is a revelation that even the sweetness of liquid sugar cannot battle, and her tentative first sip on the boiling beverage is taken as much to hide an overpowering surge of pity. There are times no look, and no apology, can quite cut it.

"Yes, Blink." She replies to the desperate, disbelieving question with a tremendous sense of distance in her tone-- her thoughts spinning still in the knowledge that she's just subjected the survivor of a most miserable existence to the paranoia ignited by her own, comparatively first-world problems. "Few ever need to question their pacifism. Many more don't who possibly should; but this world, it... it's not yet near the state of yours. We occupy a strange sort of peace, full of pointing fingers and bigotry. I wouldn't call it pleasant..."

She pauses to take another sip, momentarily closing her eyes as it goes down. When they open, it's with the warmth of compassion and understanding. Setting down her cup, she coddles it in both hands, sparing another smile for the lost girl before her.

"But we've still got a chance. I mean to see it's one we don't throw away, whatever the cost."

If she let herself dwell entirely in her past, Blink would never get out of bed in the morning. There's just not time to feel so much self-pity. She has to keep herself busy, keep striving to help others, to look forwards, not back, in order to make the world a better place. Because if she doesn't, if she couldn't distract herself, she might drop back.

"You're very lucky." She says, at last, "And... if you've fought him once, well, you know how important it is to fight him again. Every time."

The sweet drink is set down, though her hands still close around the cup, enjoying the warmth that radiates from it. She hadn't actually had time to pursue her mission in the Negative Zone, after all. She'd been distracted by amnesia, and then tyrants and madness. Who is to say that these people aren't just stronger than the mutants she is familiar with back home? Perhaps there are people here who really could help defeat Apocalypse.

"And if I can come here, so can he. Eventually. We... should help each other. Don't you think? That seems like a better idea than killing each other, anyway."

Another flicker of a smile. It doesn't last for long, but she's at least relatively confident that, whatever else happens today, she isn't going to be stabbed by Psylocke. Which is a definite positive.

A nod. Slow, but not cautious. Having perused the girl as best she can without attempting the most invasive manner of prying, she's made the assessment that not only should she extend some measure of trust to Blink-- but work to assist her. Psylocke has let her guard down several times already, and made no secret of her intentions at the outset. It would be a conniving foe indeed who could, or would, maintain the act this long. No. This girl is more than genuine.

"Not just him, Blink," comes the stalled response to the inference that they must fight, and defeat, Apocalypse again. "Our destinies are not fated, our futures not carved in stone." She certainly sounds sure of that, pausing to sip again at her chocolate before continuing with a soft sigh, "Though, what became of your world..."

"I'd be willing to stake my life, and those of everybody I hold dear, that it began in much the same vein as the world you've found yourself in. Armageddon does not fall overnight; there are signs, foretellings, at least the cries of deranged men to herald the end. Call me crazy, but I don't believe your coming here is a coincidence. I hold faith in no celestial, guiding hand, but my understanding of the human mind grows every day. There are powers at work - within us, part of us - that work both heedless of our will, and because of it."

At last she returns the smile, chin raising faintly as she voices positive judgement.

"You've got strength inside you. Whoever your allies have been before, for good or ill, I'd be your ally here; as my other self was. I'm sure she's worried for you, Blink." There's that softness to her tone again, so fleeting but heartfelt. "What better hand to ease that concern? Though we should... probably get you out of Gotham. Our kind isn't exactly welcome in the cities, and you--" How does one present this? 'You don't look human'? "You're very distinctive."

There's a tiny, apologetic smile at that, though it's with a hint of self-effacing chagrin that she reaches with one hand to tease out a sodden strand of purple hair. Blink may be an extreme case, but she's not the only one who stands out in a crowd.

It is a very serious matter indeed, the end of the world. But it doesn't do any good to get, overwhelmed by it. Just like any other day that she can remember, Blink is trying to extract the necessary information to continue to survive. The hesitation, the comment about their 'kind'. Well. That's, interesting. It is probably ironic that she wouldn't have considered being a mutant to be something that could cause a problem. After all, she's used to the mutants being the majority. But if flatscans- no, she should probably just start thinking of them as 'humans' - are pointing fingers. Threats to liberty... mmn.

She lifts up her drink, and drains it completely. Wasting nourishment just isn't something that she does. And then she nods her head. "If you're right, I'll do everything I can to stop this world becoming like mine. But... I want to set my world right." She says, seriously. "I can't, just abandon it. There are people who were worried about me." The past tense, because, she explains, "By now, they'll just assume that I have been killed." One more casualty whose body will never be recovered. An all too common occurance.

"If we find a good roof with a view to where you want us to go, I can get us there. It'll be quicker and easier than the streets, at least until I can find a shawl or something. First priority should always be establishing safety, shelter and food."

"Then we'll also find you a way home."

Precisely who 'we' includes will be left hazy for now, but Psylocke shows no hesitation whatsoever in offering that pledge. Many would be decrying the very idea of returning to a wartorn hellhole-- but as someone who's left her own home behind, and even lost the body she was born with, she can too well understand how sorely the heart aches. Setting down her own cup - a inch of dregs remaining, apparently the kunoichi less inclined to scrounge for morsels - she stands with a small, easing stretch of limbs, and offers one last smile.

"I think you'll find shelter and food a... little easier to come by, here."

Which is to say nothing of safety. That's something they'll need to work on together.