Parting Paths?

July 25, 2015:

While Betsy trains to regain use of her TK; they discuss the current state of mutants, life, and a possible departure from the team.

Flushing Meadows Park

Flushing Meadows is a public park in Queens, the fouth largest in New
York. It's home to the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, the New York
Hall of Science and Citi Field. It also hosted the World Fair of '39/'40 and

The park itself features wide open expanses between the various facilities
on it along with footpaths and, as is necessary in the summer, shaded areas.


NPCs: Families, people, it's new york and crowded.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Betsy and Jean have been training together in one way or another for years. Betsy taught Jean how to apply mascara properly; Jean, in return (or revenge), taught her chess. And proceeded to absolutely stomp on her nine times for ten in every game they played. Betsy had flipped more than one board in her day, but it was good training for both of them, learning how to shield thoughts from one another and compartmentalize their thought processes. Betsy hadn't started to win but barely more than fractionally until she'd learned to blather on endlessly to try and distract Jean by talking about anything and everything, incessantly.

In her recuperation, however, they'd taken it to a new level. Not just chess- but three games of chess at once. Played telekinetically. At the same time. While carrying on a conversation. And dropping a piece meant sacrificing a move- a penalty more often on Betsy than on Jean.

"Patrick Stewart was in… Prince of Egypt with Steve Martin… who… was in Novocaine with Kevin Bacon," Betsy gets out after a struggle. Because what's three-way speed chess without adding in a conversational component on top of it?

The heat in the area was decent. The open clearing in which they sat surrounded by tables of others playing chess while they took up three allowed for the sun to bear down upon their skin and the wind to add a nice touch of cool. There was no sweat, only sun dresses and pretty faces, hands folded within laps and one thigh crossed over the other. It was all methodical really. Jean wasn't great at chess, at first. It started with a game with Professor Xavier that evolved over the years into something that was a mundane appointment. No telekenesis though; hand upon a rook and knight to 5.

"Are we talking about the Six Degrees of Separation of Kevin Bacon or something?" Jean muses. It's been a while since she was allowed to relax, to be out in the open where the children played with their nannites and often time mothers. Even the dads were out with their sons, daughters, and dogs tossing baseballs and frisbees with the means to catch. It was typical, for some were out flying kites on this windy day despite the storm that was starting to loom. But it felt great. The wind..

"Kevin Bacon is a versatile actor. I am ashamed that he hasn't taken on any more roles where he was the villain. Another villain, John Travolta. Another? Keanu Reeves, though that was so long ago.." She smirks. "Now all of the British actors are becoming villains because they're not suitable to be good guys in American movies." A jab to throw her off.

Betsy squints and rubs her temples, wincing as she fumbles a piece and loses a move on board #2. "It's only because you blasted colonials still feel the stinging yoke of a proper Empire on your backs," Betsy rebuts, amethyst eyes narrowed in tight focus on nothing. "I think secretly you yearn for a propery monarchy to keep you mindful of your manners, rather than the likes of the Kardashians and your other noveau riche."

She makes a counter move on board one; it's a clever and surprisingly aggressive play, quite unlike her 'old' style which was conversative, pragmatic, and quite predictably conservative. "Your turn. John Travolta, degrees to Kevin, and Google will prove you wrong if you try to make something up," Betsy warns Jean, tapping the dark screen of her sPhone on the table. She tugs on the thin straps of her sundress, worn wider over her shoulders than a more properly conservative halter might be carried. A dark plum-colored dress with slightly beige patterning, it nicely sets off her hair and provides some shape to the flowing garment.

Jean grins, each board was carefully waited upon until Betsy made her move upon each one. Each one was simultaneously thought about, until Jean saw fit to move each piece at once, give gave her ample time to think. The move was aggressive, yes. But Jean had eased up this time around, not playing to win but playing to make Betsy 'think'. "Almost everyone yearns to be controlled in some sort of way. Good, bad. There always is someone that answers to someone. Fear the man that answers to nothing."

"John Travolta.." Jean sings out quietly, her eyes closing as her fingers rub alongside her temple. "John.. Travolta… Carrie with Sissy Spacek. Sissy Spacek in JFK with Kevin Bacon.." She holds up a finger. "Now, a hard one. Samuel L. Jackson."

Betsy makes up for the lost move on the second board by taking a defensive posture in reply to Jean's moves; on the other boards, through, she presses ahead, an exchange of pieces on #1 springing an audacious trap set early in the game; on #2, Jean might realize a cast net is slowly collapsing around her queen and preparing to pin her king against her rook.

"That's easy. Django Unchained with Evan Parke, who was in the Air I Breathe with Kevin," Betsy says, smirking at Jean.

"I don't think that's true, darling," she rebuts, looking with a small smile at a pair of girls chasing a kite around with giggling laughs. "I think many people desire a lack of responsibility, but I don't think that universally we all desire to chafe under the lash of someone else's decisions. I just think Americans wish they had a proper aristocracy to admire and look up to," she says innocently.

"Or a second coming of proper aristocracy to cut down and shun." Jean points out. Her finger lifting and wiggling to alter the trajectory of the frisbee that was thrown too far and too high to land at the dogs feet. The dog snatches it up, and runs back to his owner, who looks almost a little bit bewildered. And looks at the sky.

All boards were put upon the defensive. The knights are placed back to defend the angle surrounding the king, while the Queen moves into position to take a rook. The rooks were all important in Chess. She knew that, but she was using her own as fodder.

A bishop was placed next to the Queen on board 3, haphazard, yes. But Jean was forcing her to set traps and react. A critical mind winds out in the end.

"Vin Diesel."

"Because you're doing so well with your current ones," Betsy says. She's quite focused on the game, too much so to admire Jean's gentle cast of the frisbee to the chasing dog. The rook is taken and her counter move played quickly; anticipating the exchange, she moves her knight into place, sacrificing her bishop, and then brings her other rook down to pin the king behind his own pawns. "Check in two."

She fumbles another move on board two, falling behind yet one more play; on board three, she panics and moves to take a pawn, leaving her royal line exposed.

"Vin Diesel was in Knockaround guys with John Malkovich… who was in… Queen's Logic with Kevin."

She touches a palm to her forehead, perspiring a bit with the effort of such finely tuned motions on the game board. This is something far more into Jean's wheelhouse than her own, but she's shown surprising progress in developing her fine telekinetic control during her practice.

"A tough one; Nathan Fillion," she offers, reaching for her diet soda and taking a quick sip. "Emma says I'm healing faster than she expected," she tells Jean. "Not quite to full strength yet, but I'm feeling much more competent. And she says I'm making less noise."

"The late and magnificent Christopher Lee," she replies.

"Exactly." Jean points out. Her body relaxed as usual, expression neutral as the moves were made. Her eyes were soon cast out towards those gathered, then up towards the sky. The absense of birds gave weight to her, but knowing that they were safe made her feel calm. She does reach into her lap purse to pull out a small cloth, a gift from yester-years which was embroidered with her initials. It remained forever cleaned, washed with care, the expensive cloth handed over to Betsy to take and use as she will.

As long as it's returned.

"Nathan Fillion was in Super with Kevin Bacon." She says. "Holy Avenger. Kevin was Jacques."

She nods faintly, a small smile touching her lips. "Good. We need you back to your full capabilities. They.. need you, that is. And the invitation is extended to Emma to stay at the mansion if she so chooses. That is our will." Our, meaning her and Xavier's. "She's done right by you. And by that, all of us."

Betsy accepts the cloth and daps at her neck and brow, with a professional touch that doesn't threaten to mar her makeuo. Ever conscious of her appearance. She hands it back absently, reaching for her soda, and downs the rest of it.

She stops making countermoves and focuses the weight of her attention on Jean, eyes narrowed shrewdly. Not reading her thoughts, of course, but the expression on her face strongly suggests she knows what Jean's thinking about.

"'Our will'? You've either been watching Yul Brennar or you're reading too much history, darling," Betsy chides Jean. "Referring to yourself and Charles in the imperative 'we' is a bit much, no?" She lifts an eyebrow pointedly at Jean, handing back the napkin. "What's dwelling on your mind?" She offers no graceful exit for Jean to demur; Betsy's not long on manners when she wants answers to something.

"Well, it was actually a mutual decision. Charles was watching of course, while handling his own matters and affairs. All it took was mentioning her name and he nearly agreed without me allowing an explanation. We need her." Plain and simple. "But yes, it's a bit much. It sounded almost foreboding." She laughs a little, her own bottle of water fingered before pressed aside. She wasn't thirsty.

But her mind has been heavy as of late, her lips curling into a frown as she reaches out to take the napkin from her grasp, returning it to her lap purse. "I'm sure you've heard of the troubles in Mutant Town, it's nearly turning into a War Zone. The citizens that are willing to fight are armed with guns and various sorts of arsenals, and backed by The Partisan." She pauses. "By word of Iceman." She looks away, a little slump within her chair. Elizabeth would know that means Jean is defeated. But also in thought.

"I've means to quell the violence, alone. And any blowback from Partisan and X-Red alone will be all on me. And once that is finished?"

Each chest piece on all tables begin to meticulously fall. "And when Scott returns from his incarceration? I am gone."

Betsy sighs. She /knew/, of course- as close as she and Jean were, the conversation was more confirmation than declaration. But then again, there's a certain strength to putting words to something that was otherwise just idle contemplation.

"I've little issue with the mutants arming themselves," Betsy points out to Jean. "Many of them have talents that are barely more useful than a cup of water hurled at a wildfire. But if you're of a mind to fix things on your own, then I think you're setting yourself up to fail even worse than Partisan; even more than Scott," Betsy says, her tone calmly blunt. "Partisan is too shortsighted to see anything more than violence as the end to problems, and Scott is all too ready to fall on his sword as dramatically as possible." She rolls her eyes expressively. And Rachel's so headstrong that even if there is a better solution for a problem, she'll abandon it in favor of more satisfying and immediate results."

"If you undo what Partisan did, then you're taking the /choice/ away from the mutants in M-town," Betsy points out to Jean. "They could choose to accept or deny those weapons. They could also choose to fight or turn their swords to plowshares. Taking that choice away from them, though, would tell the world that neither they nor their adversaries are ready or able to deal with their own problems. You're suggesting pursuing unilateral action to 'fix' everything, whether they want your help or not. Saying you'll take the blowback doesn't make that any better; you're trying to make a martyr of yourself to make yourself feel better about doing it."

"I have issue with them arming themselves to kill, Elizabeth." With the game officially over, Jean slides the chair back and politely stands, still tossing her manners aside to fix her dress out in the open, tugging a bit of cloth down here, there, smoothing along her belly. "And I understand that some of our people have been taken and killed by the Purifiers. But there has to be a different solution than to take up arms, creating a war that will cause deaths on both sides. We're supposed to protect these people; good or bad, no matter the cost. Disarm them, throw them in jail by way of citizens arrest or with the few police officers on our side. As I've told Bobby they have hand, fists. They have powers, no matter how little. They have ideals, which is more powerful than any weapon that any of them can imagine. Why did we not employ this? Why.. straight to violence? It begets more of it."

She holds her hand out for Betsy to help her stand if need be, and once she does, the path that they take would be across the grass. Her flats would come off and held within her fingers as she keeps her lap-purse (clutch) against her side. "You're talking to the biggest martyr of them all, Bets. I've died twice for this world." She lets out a little laugh, but Betsy was right. That was the only solution she could come up with. Taking away the weapons, disarming them, hoping for a better way..

"But we do help them whether they want it or not. Whether they know it or not. And I'm not doing this to make myself feel better. I want to save their souls so they don't have to live and breathe with the taint of death upon their souls. Like us." She smiles, but it was sad. "Scott.." She missed him. " Scott. I love him with everything I have and yet feel angry and abandoned. Part of me thinks that me leaving is due to spite but the other part thinks that it's deserved. And that I've failed him as the defacto leader of X-Men. Everything has fallen way too fast. And I'm losing myself in this storm."

Betsy accepts the hand and rises; not because she needs the help, but because it was offered, and she squeezes Jean's hand to reassure her of her sympathy despite her cool tones. The leggy woman falls into step alongside the shorter redhead, her own little purse slung over a shoulder and cell phone vanishing into a pocket; looking for all the world like any two given women out enjoying the sunshine.

"Darling, Scott was selfish," Betsy points out, bluntly. "The X-men /needed/ the two of you here. It needed not leadership, but solidarity. I can't do it alone. Hank can't. Ororo can't- /Charles/ can't," she points out.

"There's a difference between self-sacrifice and martyrdom, dear," Betsy points out, walking with her usual impossibly steady balance, even in wedges. Even her hair somehow stays out of her face. "Scott had a responsibility to be a leader and he abandoned that to try and protect Rachel from her own choices. Yes, it sounds noble, but look at where we're at. Divided and confused and angry," she says. "Now you're proposing to do /exactly what he did/, but for our family in M-town," Betsy observes.

She touches a tongue to her upper lip, nose wrinkled in thought as she casts her eyes to the walkway. "I know you want to help everyone. But anyone who picked up a weapon did so with reasons. Some of them very practical," she reminds Jean. "Not necessarily ideal, or perfect, but still important. Given a means to protect themselves- their homes, even their families- they took it. Many of us- particularly you and I- are so far beyond the notion of being vulnerable that I think we forget sometimes how truly imperiled many mutants are. And it's not right for us to project our ideals on them. A world without violence would be a wonderful thing, but frankly, I'm not comfortable with telling a family they should simply surrender without a fight if threatened."

The walk in itself was slow, tempered and eased, even with a slight turn to wave at a little girl who stares at the two women who walk by. And she was only staring because the taller woman had purple hair. And that girl ran off to tell her mother that she wanted hair just like Betsy's.

But it stung to hear that Scott was selfish, her cheeks burning just a touch red, her head shaking just a little as she looks up towards Betsy. "But wouldn't you be as well? Knowing that your daughter.. granted she didn't come from us directly, had gotten herself mixed up in some mess that.. could have easily been prevented.. and we both agreed to it." She sighs a little. "I know there's a difference.."

But she couldn't say anymore on that. "Perhaps it's my forever loyalty and unshakable faith in him that has lead me to feel such a way of wanting to leave.. or even allowing him to actually do what he has done." She pushes a stray strand of red behind her ears, her gaze fallen upon the ground. Her head shaking slightly.

"I still have to believe that there is another way.. that we can save everyone and their souls and not have any more deaths. And I do believe that families that live there have the right to fight, I truly do. But I'm starting to feel like I am the only one who believes that giving them that means to fight, a lethal means, is still a terrible idea." She shakes her head slightly. "Just at least tell me that you see my side. That you truly understand what I am saying. Because Bobby and Partisan.. I'm not sure that they can, anymore."

"I'm not saying what they did was right, either," Betsy points out to Jean, carrying on those confidently cool tones as they walk. The hints of a smile crease her features, catching the little girl's adoration- an expression Jean alone at the park would pick up on. "Just that from one perspective, it was understandable."

"And as much as Rachel is genetically yours, she's not /your/ daughter," Betsy points out to Jean. "You didn't raise her. You didn't have the thousands of chances that a parent has to guide and nurture and help her chart her moral course. You're no more responsible for her moral compass than mine," she tells Jean. "Neither you, nor Scott, but for some reason you two insist on carting that particular cross around," she says, with a frustrated upwards flick of her long fingers.

"I see your side, darling, I really do," Betsy assures Jean, touching the back of her arm gently. "I'm also looking at your position. You're frustrated, and angry, and worried, and there's a colossal mess in front of you that someone else made, and you've got such a /clever/ solution to it, and wouldn't it just be so easy if you just… did it?"

"I seem to recall you making similar objections not too long ago when we were talking about 'final solutions'," she reminds Jean a bit pointedly, clearly referring to Rose and Nate, and the unspoken team. "But what you're proposing here is worse than killing a man. You're talking about denying an entire group of people- two groups," she amends, "the right to choose their own futures. For good or bad. And that sounds quite opposite to what a parent should ultimately want for their children. To raise them to make the right choice, not to take their choices away from them."

"Understandable and reckless." Jean retorts. However, it was out of mild spite, but she truly did believe it was understandable. But yes, what happened didn't make it right. She reaches out to lightly grasp Betsy's wrist, looking up towards the taller woman with a slight frown. "I know very well that she's not my daughter. She's practically two to five years younger than I am, a living.. breathing person. But she's the only blood 'relative' that I have left. Her and Nathaniel. They share some version of me, my DNA. My entire family is gone, Betsy. I have to hold on to that little thread, that small shred of that. And Scott.." He really didn't even let her say goodbye. Let her be held. He didn't even give her a chance to ask Rachel what happened.

She lets Betsy go, her hand dropping at her side, her lips pursing with a slight frown. "I don't know.." She murmurs quietly, "I just don't know."

The solution, yes. It would have been clever, if it was the same solution that Betsy thought of. How Jean could storm Mutant Town and wipe and rewire everyone into fitting her ideals and goals, wait for the next Purifier to enter and turn him away with an infected mind; spread that disease all the way to the top and effectively shut it down. Clever. Effective.

And more importantly, more damaging than anything else.

"So we should just stand back and let everything go. Let everything fall as they may. I admit that we've failed a great amount when it came to our own. Normals alike. How we failed when the first mutant attacked and possibly killed them out of pure fear, how we did not prevent the hatred of our kind.. how we hid and did nothing and furthered our own goals.." She draws her arms around ourselves. "How we've become so lost from our original agenda to be loved and accepted by everyone, no matter who and what we are.."

"We're going to be monsters. Elizabeth. Through and through."

Betsy slips an arm around Jean's shoulders and hugs her. The angles are a bit weird, but it's a comforting gesture as familiar to Jean as he own favorite blanket. The two women walk along a bit, quiet for a moment.

"I'm not a terribly wise philosopher, Jean," Betsy reminds her friend. "I don't know a lot about moral rightness. I do know what the Hand taught me- that when you have the power to do something, you inherently have the right to do so. It wasn't until m- our minds met that I realized what road that leads down," she says. "The Hand never concerned themselves with any consequences beyond their own advancement, and they left the world near to catastrophe several times in the doing. And when I was a gel, I almost made the mistakes. It took Charles- and you," she reminds Jean, gently hip-checking her, "to show me that getting away with doing the wrong thing didn't make it acceptable behaviour."

"We're already monsters in many eyes, darling," she says, looking down the winding path. "But if we're damned either way, I'd rather be villified for doing nothing than being remembered as being party to denying people their free will." Pain rings in her words and thoughts, recollection of her time in captivity before her return to the X-men. "That's really what sacrifice is, you know. The small things that go unseen and that we suffer without complaint. What makes us family is that we don't suffer alone," she says, turning to give Jean a rare and sincerely reassuring smile.

In that moment of silence, Jean had allowed herself to think in that moment. What she wanted to do, what she had the means to do. Was it really a good idea? Would leaving.. just as Scott had done, be a form of abandonment? She shook her head to herself as she walked along, her thoughts put on hold to continue to listen. "I remember.." Jean has to smirk at that, the shoe was now upon the other foot. At least she hadn't acted, but there were thoughts of going out in the middle of the night -to- act.

"But we are suffering alone. When we really don't have to." She leans her head a little against Betsy's shoulder, then disengages completely. There was a bit of space put in between the two women as they clear out of the sight of the public. "Fly. Just a little. Use your Tee-Kay to draw your feet from the ground and follow my pace." It was a slow pace, the same pace that they had continued. Just because they were talking doesn't mean that training should stop.

"But you're right. I can't willingly rob the choice of defending themselves from those people. But 'we' can stop the Purifiers from ever stepping foot in Mutant Town ever again." Which is why Betsy needed to be on the up and up. Which is why training would never stop. "I.. may still leave. I have not decided." Each conversation she has with an old friend sways and tugs her one way or the next. But there was a smile there. "Spain.. or some sort.."

Betsy groans and stamps her feet a bit. "Nooo," she whines. "It's not natural, flying without a plane," she mutters. Still, she gathers up her dress in one hand, pulling it tight against her hip, and elevates into the air with a narrow-eyed struggle, body poised like a ballerina in midair. In moments, she's keeping up with Jean, if a bit uncertainly.

"I'm glad I'm not wearing bloomers," she mutters.

It takes her a few seconds to get her concentration under control, but she manages to get herself hovering along with Jean as they crest a low rise of apartments and start cruising over the cityscape. "Now, I have absolutely no issue with stopping the Purifiers cold," Betsy tells Jean, primly. "They made the choice to attack mutants; I'll happily play the role of that consequence." She dips a bit, wavering, but at least doesn't drop out of the sky, one hand fluttering for un-necessary balance check.

"I think I have a distant cousin in Spain," Betsy remarks with a thoughtful look, clucking her tongue. "I know a pleasant villa there. If Europe's on the table, though, there's always my family estates," she suggests, with an attempt at nonchalance. "As long as you don't seduce my lumbering clodhopper of a brother, I think you'd rather like it. Essex isn't far from London, and it's quite urban now, and…" she clears her throat, checking mounting enthusiasm at the idea. "Well, it's there, in any case," she offers, lamely. "And if you're quite sold on Spain, I can certainly help you get settled there. Or Italy, if you're of a mind for that Mediterranean weather."

"Flying, will come in handy. Your brain is a muscle. For you to lift things greater than yourself, you start with the self." Jean gestures. She doesn't fly, however, she continues that slow stroll. "I have no issue with it either. Though that means operating outside our means and wants. Nathaniel, I'm sure, has a plan. Even the others.." Of that group. She doesn't speak it aloud. Any information was locked away, tight. No one could break past that wall when it came to X-Black.

Though, the prospect of leaving was becoming a whole lot sweeter. She wasn't expecting connections, but hearing that she may have? It just made everything better. "Perhaps an all around the world romp." She muses. "I think.. most of my upset with Slim was the fact that we've never had a chance to conquer France." She shrugs her shoulders idly. "But alone time is due."

She glances up towards Betsy, adding a slight hint of weight to her shoulders with a telekinetic push downwards. Nothing that would hurt, but she would definitely feel it.

"Oh you wretched cow," Betsy grunts, flailing with one hand and coming back down until she's on level with Jean, barely keeping her feet off the asphalt. She stops when she gets enough 'leverage' to push easily against the ground, though in truth it's mostly a psychological block that keeps her from flying free, elegantly poised in the air despite her discomfort.

Finally stable, it takes her a few moments to compose a reply, fretting at her lower lip in a gesture of mild consternation that she seems forever unaware she does. "I … bollocks," she mutters. "I agree with you," she sighs, upset with the admission but clearly not avoiding it. "You've been at Xavier's as long as I have, without the benefit of distance during uni. I couldn't exactly take a flight to New York anytime I was needed. Things just don't feel quite the same there, and they won't while you're gone," she says, shoulders slumping. "But I'm hardly one to argue with you for needing some time alone."

Jean cracks up laughing, first time since she's been leader. It was a joyous laugh, even if she was called a name that she despised. "Remember. Lift greater than yourself, start with the self. This will come in handy if you need to carry someone to safety." She keeps the pressure even until Betsy keeps up, but she does not add more. Baby steps. A brain will snap when pushed to the limits, then who knows what could happen afterwards.

"I would love for you and Slim to come with me. And we strike out onto the town, saving people.. dancing and laughing the night away.." There was a slight frown at what she said, her gaze pointed downward. That pressure soon eased up upon Betsy's shoulders to allow her a moment of rest. "But yes. Maybe that is another problem that I have, my identity. I need to regain myself.. just as you have." She looks up towards her. "I.. just don't know how, and I'm unsure if leaving is really the answer."

Betsy flails again and a toe scrapes the ground. She mutters something uncharitable again about Jean's weight, but it seems largely driven by her own frustrations. Still, Jean's laugh is infectious, and she grins dazzlingly despite herself at the sight of Jean thoroughly amused.

"I'm afraid I'm not much help there, my dear. You're the smart one; I'm the one with the looks." Betsy finally stabilizes her flight, looking a bit drained at the effort of overcoming her mental barriers regarding flight. But, she is flying more confidently. "But, I shall endeavour to support you however I can, in whatever way you need," Betsy assures Jean, flashing another smile at her. "I suppose it's time for me to bury the hatchet with Scott, anyway," she exhales. "It's been long enough- past time to stop being a little git over the whole issue. I'm happy you two have one another," she tells Jean, with the real sincerity only a telepath can muster- admitting just a bit of jealousy but honest about her feelings, both for good and ill. "If you need us both along, I'm there with you. All the way."

"Isn't that how it always goes? There's the brains of the family that lacks the looks and the looker of the family that lacks the brains." She reaches up with a hand to lightly slap at her arm. "You can come down now, that's enough for today."

But she does smile softly towards her friend, looking upwards with a slight tilt of her head. "I've always wondered what happened between you to, how it got this far. But I figured it was best that I don't pry in the personal business.." She frowns a little. "But, that's all I've ever wanted from you two. To be friends again. I know that the comraderie will be refreshing.." She smiles at the possibilities..

"I'm always going to need you two. No matter the cause or cost. But, lets go home. We need to rest up. I want to hit the streets tomorrow and put an ear to the ground. We may be traveling to the midwest."

Betsy drops heavily, pointedly landing mostly on Jean on the way down but making sure not to topple her. In fairness, Betsy probably has close to thirty pounds of muscle on Jean, as well as most of half a foot. "Oh joy, the vast wheat fields of America's breadbasket," Betsy exhales. "Thank God you Yanks at least know how to make a decent steak."

Her hand vanishes into her purse, producing a compact and clicking it open one-handedly; hair, makeup, dress artfully poised on her round shoulders, everything in order, check check check *click* and she looks like she did the moment she stepped out of her room earlier that day for the outing. It's been speculated that /that/ might actually be her primary mutation. "I am feeling quite ready. I shall drag Emma along, though," Betsy suggests. "If you and Scott feel a crushing need to express your vast affections for one another, I'd at least prefer to have someone with whom I can exchange snobbish nothings."

That land stumbled her, thankfully she didn't wear her flats, or else she would have been on the ground. She supports Betsy's weight, even though it wasn't needed, only releasing her until she was upright and walking again. "Gosh.. lets trail the barbecue circuit. Make an event out of it.." She grins faintly, only stopping to watch Betsy fix herself within the mirror. Her nose turns up almost immediately, her head whipping away, a foul word muttered underneath her breath and then they were on the move.

"Oh gawd. Don't do that. I honestly don't think that I could take two snobs in one single sitting. I might have to lobotimize myself just to deal." She chuckles faintly, then slips an arm around Betsy's waist. "But yes. Barbecue circuit. Let's bring Emma, test her in the field, yes?"

"Well, -deal-," Betsy orders Jean, affecting a frosty tone. "If I have to endure Scott, you get to endure Emma. A bit of blue-blood would help refine things anyway. I could do with fewer celebratory dinners at Denny's." She shudders.

"She's a bit of a fighter in her, but I don't think she has much experience in minding herself in dangerous situations," Betsy says, touching her tongue to her lip delicately in thought. She hugs Jean automatically as the woman worms in against her side, leaning against her friend with equal affection and squeezing her shoulders with that familiar yet still slightly awkward gesture. It's hard to correct for ten years of hugging someone a certain way. "Still, if we're going to ground, she might be an invaluable asset. She's certainly a talent for duplicity, if being somewhat wildly lacking in tact in that regard. She's quite a bit worse than I was, I'm afraid. But, she should come along nicely."

"I do -not- take you to Denny's. And you take that back. Moons Over My Hammy is a delicacy!" Was Jean upset? A tiny bit. You really can't beat the Invisible Woman pancake platter. That was a level of deliciousness that no one could ever, ever ignore. Ever. And the hash browns? Gosh..

"We will test her then. Or.. more or less throw her to the wolves and see how she flounders. But I honestly have genuine faith in her. And I do believe and feel that she can adapt, in her own way." She looks up towards Betsy and smiles. She's got faith in everyone, even when those walk the wrong path and possibly piss her off. That faith is forever unshaken. "I suppose this means that you'll be her charge then?"

"Tosh, darling," Betsy says, giving Jean a sisterly kiss on the brow. "I'm not charged with anyone. I'm far too self-obsessed with my image, you know," she chides Jean with a dry and playful and properly British wit, stepping out with those long legs. "I like to go for something to the effect of 'Sexy, but not like I'm trying to hard.'" She purses her lips, turning a sunny disposition to the street and nearly causing a car wreck quite unintentionally. She ignores the blare of horns and two faces rubbernecking her way, out with her best friend and not having a care in the world for a moment.

"You know: 'Yes, I'm trying, but it's really quite effortless.'"

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