Telepathic Visits

December 25, 2017:

Betsy visits Lorna via telepathy while she's in Zealot's prison

Ultra-Max Prison in Genosha, the Bastile


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Eclipse Magneto

Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Psylocke had spent time trying to help Eclipse be more rational. But when someone you love is at risk. His door had closed with an inaudible click and her eyes closed while her head is in a bow of (in)decision.

The stare of the one before is captured ina flick of violet gaze.

Then the portal. To Cerebro…

What should she risk for this, being here on her own accord anyway?

"Ladies Room? Powder nose.." A slow smile to the man who simply points and stammers…

"Th-Thahh..t W-way…" He may have a disorder, or not, Psylocke simply offers him a smile and slips into the small space, lining the tiled floor in paper towels delicately before she settles upon her nest of 'Recycled' Toiletries and closes her eyes.

She will not risk the X-Men for this endeavor, but in meeting Lorna once she at least knows of the signature to trace for and extends her Psyche out until she hits a wall with the resounding Scream!.

"Lorna… Dane… Polaris… Ya 'ave met me before, and I wish to see you again on similar terms… But you need to let me in." Asking nice… Going… going…

Hopefully Lorna recognizes Psylocke AKA Betsy Braddock, or at least the concern in her tone.


Lorna had had a bad case of screwed over by telepaths and those with similar abilities. First Dani on the Darkside, had plagued her with dreams of her darkest fears. Sewn anger and fear and self loathing by the handful. Then her half sister, Wanda Maximoff, currently one of the most wanted Terrorists out there, had sliced her way through Lorna's memories with something akin to a rusty butter knife.

To top all of that off, Zealot had knocked her out by throwing all of the pain, suffering, fear and anguish that Genoshans had suffered for months at her.

Her mind was more of less string cheese in terms of defenses.

It still didn't stop the growl at her throat as she wiped the blood that trickled from her nose with the back of her hand. Too much of her focus was on her own mental voice. Too much of her focus occupied on convincing herself to get the hell up and stand and try again. To throw everything she had, which, without proper rest or food, was slowly dwindling… magnetic powers. In a room that killed all of her senses and left her blind to the world's magnetic fields.

Perhaps though, that was why Psylocke's voice caught her focus as she pushed herself, trembling to stand up again. Her brows furrowed and she staggered back against the wall of her cell, breathing hard. "W-what? Jean? Professor? Who?" Her brows furrowed as she went through the list of people she liked in her head and frowned. Definitely not them.

"Betsy?! What—how…" She exhaled a breath, dragging her bloodied hand against her the pants of her bodysuit. "Never mind.. Where are you?"


Tendrils of mindscape lash around the form, shadowed, outlined, and at first the magenta flash of light is of Butterfly Wings before the figure of the Brit is but a shadow that slowly becomes corporeal upon permittance, but standing at any lines drawn by Lorna. Psylocke knows better, but knows when to Hold Em.

Or Fold 'Em.

A grip comes to a part of the shredded mindscape, fingers stroking to part tendrils and brush a paint of meld through them to help heal the damage done as she takes slow steps forward.

Glowing Violet eyes land upon Lorna, and even if a touch is not -there-, she can feel it sweep any remnants of blood from her upper lip. "I am at the Base. Came on my own, F.Y.I." A roll of eyes and she is lowering to the same position she holds within the Bathroom, before Lorna. Legs crossed.

"Ma… Eclipse is ready to go, to find you. I wanted to be sure you were okay first before he gives a life he is so willing to lay out." A slow lean of her head and those pin-straight deep purple strands stroke over bare shoulder in the assessment.

"Stop it. It will be okay." Psylocke states, her own voice finding level and reason for Polaris.


Lorna leaned back against the wall, slumping faintly as she felt the gentle mental touch, that healed some of worst damage Zealot had in flicted. There were remnants of the last time Jean had helped Lorna put her head back together. Psychic bandages that had never been given proper time to heal as they should have. Lorna was constantly rushing head long into danger, never stopping for longer than it took to catch her breath.

And now? Now there was a new sense of urgency to her struggles, Zealot had told her she was pregnant. A mental clock had started in her mind's eye. Egging her onto her failed attempts to escape. Zealot wanted to use her and what ever possible child she might have (she still wasn't ready to trust him on that entirely), against Magneto or the X-men. He'd mocked her over it. Threatened death.. and..

Well, Lorna had knocked the lights out several times. Set off the alarms another dozen times. Blown the door off her cell twice. The first time she'd knocked herself out with how much power she'd used. Phillip had told her the guards had rushed in to find her passed out on the floor. The second time, she'd been awake long enough to feel the fall and see the guards rushing in before she blacked out.

So Betsy's words? That the woman had come on her own? It had her releasing a breath, some of the pounding in her head lessening at least.

"Don't let him come. His powers were useless against Zealot. Tell Magneto where I am. He's got his armies. They can deal with the Zealot and his people…"


Betsy sits, cross legged before Lorna, thighs clad in straps of criss-crossed ribboning of vinyl purple, toes bent inward to cusp within the fold of knees, a look upward, any lighting flickering is reached for by fingertips likewise in twine of wrapping…

Touched upon to still the rapid-fire of atmospheric change in the tempo. No Club, here, just broken….

"Does he know?" A drop of violet gaze in ultra-light flicker towards Lorna's belly, a hand extending for her to join her, face to face, seated. Level. "Does… Your Father know?" A loft of brow and Psylocke remains unmoving in her position, but her blinks is slow, a veil cast and shed.

"Stop saying that. Eclipse has his worth beyond his past, but he needs to accept it too. Would you tell your(both) child that as well in the future you will birth it into?" A light loft of her chin and Psylocke is seeking Outward, beyond the prison cell Lorna is encased within.

"Magneto is the answer to this country and its regime, right now. A work in progress," Her sigh is almost sarcastic, but embittered and sweet. "But history repeats itself."

"But for how long? What did you last see before -here-?" And that is when Betsy seeks to stroke along healed mindscape and find a location.

Scott, Marco, Lorna… No… Is not the answer.


Lorna seemed to internally struggle with the concept of sitting down, as if to sit down was to admit just how very exhausted she was. But the lift of the hand toward her, the fact that Betsy sat.. slowly had her easing down with creak of her joints unlocking. A wince escaped her features, and her head tilted back, eyes closed as she exhaled a shaky breath. There was panic. Bright and strong in her mind at the questions. It lit up her mind and danced there trembling faintly.

"No.. No.. they don't. Unless Zealot sent word like he said. I didn't.. I didn't know until he said anything." Her features screwed into a twist and scowl, her hands curling on her lap.

"I guess he wasn't lying after all." She muttered stiffly, and crossed her arms as she struggled to contain the anger and the fear that spiked with such an admittance. Lorna was a jumpy as a deer, and as vicious as a mother bear. It wasn't a good combination. Cornered, mentally injured, and scared.

"You can't tell Marcos." Her jaw tightened and her throat closed up briefly. "If I die and the rescue goes to shit, I don't want him here. I don't want him to see me die. I don't want him to hear from someone else that … that there might be a.. a.." Her knees bent and she drew her folded legs to her stomach, wrapping her hands around her waist. Baby, child, was still hard to say. Much less admit.

She didn't get into what Genosha needed. What the future needed. Though the longer she spent locked up in an anti-mutant jail? Oh the more she hated it. The more she became convinced that maybe her father and her shared a few more beliefs than she'd previously thought.

Betsy's mental prodding of her mindscape turned up the words 'Maximum security prison'. Phillip had told her where she was, as she was unable to see beyond the four walls of her cell. The tiny bars that blocked her vision beyond the pentagonal room from a clear inspection, and much more beyond. She knew there were blast doors beyond her cell, closing off the entire cell block from the rest of the prison. It was all white. Sterile.


Psylocke is hunting, now, the affirmation from Lorna has her coming to a halt as if she impacted a brick wall. Closed eyes open and for a moment the projection of Psylocke flickers like a broken digitalization before Lorna..

But only a moment and in a ravel of limbs Psylocke is landing fingertips on the bent knee of Lorna's while it draws to her chest. Reassuring as best as Psylocke can be, while those eyes of a neon violet doed out and are nearly black in the narrowed set. Her voice is even, assured, firm. "If I let anyone know it will make them wreckless, a thing we cannot afford right now. Your secret is safe, but you need to /*STOP*/!" A pause as Psylocke draws back and her lids flicker in the relay of revealed mental images.

"Rest. Because it is not all about you… Not anymore." Psylocke rocks back and melds to her feet in a manner akin to a waterfall in the smooth technique that has her residual form hovering while it dissipates.

"You get to tell them all *that* little nugget all on your own, but the rest… I /have/ to give. You do not belong in a cage, Lorna." And in a rattle of reality around them, a wave-like tremor Psylocke dissolves into tiny pastel-lit butterflies - scattered to the wind.


The gentle touch had Lorna stilling for the brief moment, her focus intensely focused on the woman before her as her image flickered and reaffirmed briefly before her into something once more 'solid' to her mind's eye. Green eyes clashed against the neon purple of Betsy's gaze and Lorna's back straightened at the words. There was a spine of steel there. Something less than willing to bend. It was her father's stubbornness. It was her own.

As if Psylocke's words, about 'it' not being just about her anymore had her jaw clenching and her breath escaping her in a gust.

Resolve burned in those green eyes as hot, if not hotter, than molten iron. "I'm not going to sit here and wait for Zealot to decide I'm better off dead." She whispered. "I will get out of here." She stood, pushing herself up to stand again.

"And when I'm done here I'll kill each of those mutates that follows Zealot. They're not going to touch me or mine ever again." There was a heated anger to her voice, and she glanced back at Psylocke's dissolving image. Alex and Marcos had suffered at the mutate's hands, had almost been killed. Anyone that followed Zealot was a threat.

Being pregnant didn't make Lorna Dane quiet down. Didn't give her pause to think of taking care of herself more. Rather, it seemed to have only been a reminder to fight harder. To strike back without any mercy. There was an added timer to her world now. A world that hated mutants and hated her family even more.

Lorna Dane, Polaris, had seven or eight months to change the world. To finish off the war her father started. To carve out a future for her child that she'd always pictured as some distant, vague, concept. The clock was ticking, and it wouldn't hold off while she was being locked behind bars…

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