Here for the Dead

August 10th, 2014: Lucky and Psylocke meet.

A Cemetery in NYC

Unnamed Cemetery



  • None

Mood Music:

A dark storm brews overhead letting loose a small and rhythmic sprinkle of rain over the rather quiet graveyard. Despite the rain, a man in a rather nice black suit and tie stands beside a well worn already faded grave marker, with a black umbrella, and a small collection of roses in the other hand. He's already spent the last few hours just standing and looking at the tombstone, before he finally brings himself to place down the roses onto the head of the grave.

The mans face is absolutely covered in scars, and faded burns, to the point that this man must lead a very violent life, and a well paying one by the quality of his suit. He's got the kind of feeling of a career soldier, or maybe even a mercenary. Every month or so for as long as anyone alive can really remember the same man has been coming to drop off flowers and just spend away the evening looking towards the steadily wearing away tombstone. Yet that man was well into his early 70's and the man now standing there in his suit and tie looks to only be about in his twenties.
There was really no reason for Betsy to turn up at the graveyard as she did. Possibly one of those weird habits that she forced herself to take on to keep herself connected to humanity, to not be a slave to the darker forces that pull her. Patting babies on the ass, shaking hands, giving hugs to random people and money to the homeless. Donating to various charity causes that she could care less about, making sure the Braddock household staff remains taken care of. None of that makes her feel closer to what she really was.

But she was there, her own single, solitary rose in hand, the petals pressed to her nose, uncaring if it rains down upon her because nothing really mattered. It was just water. Alone here, she could be herself. She could cry, curse the skies, throw shit into the Dawn and hope that someone inside of that little realm gets hurt. She didn't have to worry about the thoughts of the other X-Men or those affiliated thinking that she was a stone cold bitch. Troublesome.

What was more troublesome, was the fact that she thought she would be alone in this area, but she wasn't. Seeing a mans back caused her shoulders to slump, her gloved hand reaching up to brush away the wet hair, her own black dress suit fixed upon her body, pained look appearing upon her face to make it seem as if she too has suffered a loss. Her flowery donation would be a little girl who died only months ago, Elizabeth Webster, gravestone freshly printed now even more beautiful with the flower and stem across her name.

The man in his dark black suit leans down low beside the grave having put the roses down, just to clean off a bit of dirt from the front of the tombstone the way you would expect someone to wipe the face of a lover. His face has no joy to it, or even solace, just a look that goes off for miles endlessly into the distance. He doesn't seem to either notice or care too much that there's someone who's come behind him, at least at a glance. As he comes up to a stand he turns his head slightly, placing his free hand inside the fold of his suit.

It seemed as if she was a little bit fussy with the placement of the flower. In reality, she was not. Her eyes slanted towards him in a glance, noticing the movement of his hand inside the suit. What did he have here? Was it a gun? A knife? Could it be one of the many enemies that Betsy Braddock added to her roster in her slightly short life? A quick scan would tell her the truth, her breath drawn in and mind reaching out, concealing the manifestation of the violet butterfly that would often show itself without her thinking it. She could find out entire stories just by spending a few minutes with a person, yet all she needed from him was his surface thoughts.
The surface of Lucky's mind is a pure chaos of screaming pain, "Why'd you kill them" a hellish vision of a landscape set ablaze with endless fire, and tortured souls. Women and children burned alive locked inside of grass huts, the men forced to watch "Why didn't you stop him" a man is beaten in the face repeatedly by the butt of a large gun, "Your fault" a body sprawled on an examination table, held down while it's cut open. All of this just on the surface of this mans mind, for him he isn't standing in the middle of a graveyard in suit and tie, he's in a hellish war zone of pain and suffering a million thoughts and once racing about inside of one mind. "I did my duty for my country" a crouched man in the middle of all this madness screamed out for everyone and anyone to hear.

Yet on the outside for anyone else, it's just a man standing by a grave in the rain wordlessly. He's not really moving safe for a slow steady breathing with his hand in the pocket of his suit, and he doesn't look that distressed just staring at the man.

Betsy was rarely phased by anything. The horror of peoples minds was a fascinating thing. She witnesses this just on the surface, his own personal horror, possibly something he's had to live with for a very long time. She draws in a breath, sucking back that minds eye into his own, her eyes closing to fight off those images with an abrupt stand and a 'dusting' of her suit jacket. For some reason, the rain suddenly started to bother her, a slight chill rose up her spine, her arms immediately hugging her body, her head turned to him with slight curiousity.

"You can take your hand out of your jacket. I'm not here for you." British accent prevails through the asian guise, a slight smirk playing upon her features. "I'm here for the dead." And she was getting cold. Dammit.
Jason pulls his hand back from the suit, turning on his heel to face the woman who was behind him with a rather good speed. From this angle even with the suit it's visible that he's got some fairly large muscles even through his suit. His face is somewhat flat, and a bit unamused a Psylocke now commanding his full attention. "Umbrella?" He asks calmly in a rather gravely and unintentional harsh sounding voice taking a few steps from his spot beside the grave. His hazel eyes looking well worn and distant, as he starts to make his way towards her to offer use of his umbrella.

Militant. It makes sense. She was starting to put the pieces together as she watches him. Those surface thoughts? She had to assume he could possibly have a twinge of regret in his young bones. An adult life lived too early, thrown into the reign of fire as it will. "Please?" She murmurs quietly, her head lowering a little to watch her step as she moves forward, closing in the distance and crossing into boundaries. She was close to him, and yet she made no move to take the umbrella from his hand. "There is no sense in both of us getting wet." Her tone was amused, her hand slowly drawing away from her arm to offer a shake of the hand. "I'm Elizabeth."

"Jason" He reply's holding out a horrifically scarred hand for the woman to shake, and offering a small smile her direction. His grip's a bit firm, but at least he's trying not to squeeze her hand too hard as he gives her a friendly handshake, using the umbrella to at least partially keep both of them out of the rain for the time being. The way he moves and acts feels oddly inconsistent with his age, as if he weren't really used to being able to walk normally quiet yet.

Wet gloves brush against the scars upon his hand in a regal shake, her eyes looking up towards his with a frown. She wanted to touch his face, to ask and pry about the scars, that would be the most humane thing to do. Instead, she forces him into companionship by drawing her hand away to slip an arm around his if he let her, attempting to pull him towards the grave at where she once stood. "Elizabeth Webster was only six years old. It wasn't a violent death by any means, it was a death by curiosity." She glances towards him with a smile, then continues to speak. "Peanut butter. A child's curiosity. Her mother didn't even know that her daughter possessed the allergy, but she was given a bite to eat and she became sick. Her mother couldn't really be bothered at the moment to listen to her daughters complaints, sent her with the father so that he could take care of her. But it was too late. By the time the ambulance reached her, she was already gone." She would have shrugged, but it would have seemed morbid.

Jason nods back over towards the grave he'd been standing at for the longest time. "Thomas Lucky, only man in the family not to get buried with military honors", he explains in exchange his voice finding it a bit hard to find the right inflection to use at the moment for the distraction of his current frame of mind. The rain worsens somewhat quickly as the storm finally bursts from the clouds, slamming into the canvas of the rather expensive umbrella in Jason's hand. "Shot for treason after refusing a direct order to open fire on civilians," The way he speaks almost makes it sound like he was one who had to take the pleasure of that little execution.

Betsy glances back towards the grave that he mentioned, a little frown growing upon her face. "And I take it that those people were still killed after the fact?" She was searching for information given up willingly, refusing to impose her will upon him for the moment. "Nevermind. Don't answer that. I wouldn't like to know if his death was in vain or not." As the rain batters down upon the umbrella, she leans in a little bit closer, practically holding onto his arm with a grip that could have resembled a hug. "Were you there?"

"I took the shot" Jason says rather firmly yet a bit quietly as if unproud of his own actions "Man raised me when pa didn't come home from overseas" He doesn't really spend even a second thinking before saying with a good deal of spite filling his voice ", and they promoted me for it,".

"You did your duty for your country." She murmured quietly. Her voice oddly distance. It seems as if she were doing a total recall on what she picked out of the surface of his mind. "You are ashamed. But you don't have to be around me." It was then she impressed her will, attempting to clear the violent fog from his mind by the close of her eyes. It was a small attempt, something that wasn't as grand as what The Professor would try to do to help one in need. After all, Betsy really doesn't see herself as helpful.

Jason rubs the side of his forehead unsure quite what's going on, as the fog is slightly lifted from his mind, just one layer of who knows how many. "I try to tell myself that every day" His own voice a bit distant from reality as he adds on "it doesn't get any easier, even after almost fifty years" He lets slip unsure of why really other then just sort of feeling somewhat calm around the woman as she tries to clear his mind a bit.

It was a sad story really, something that was often repeated in human history. Killing a friend, and being rewarded for it. "Sometimes, the ends justify the means." Which was a shitty thing of Betsy to say, but it was said. Though, his mention of the years and how long it has been causes her to internally reel, this little tidbit forcing her to dig and dive into his mind a little bit deeper, just for curiosity's sake. "Fifty years? You look to be my age." She states, hoping those words would bring the particular reason why to the front of his mind without her going too deep and stunning herself.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you" Jason speaking with a bit of a forced laugh. Just digging that slight bit deeper brings forth a wave of pure pain and suffering cracked flashes of memory, circular saws, the body on the table now writhing and screaming as he's cut into. 'Keep him still' Wires, tubes, something dark, and glowing a pure black, blood everywhere more voices chiming into the screaming. 'We're not losing another one today', a rushed voice calling out as things crackle in and out of focus, the world rusting over as the black glow begins to take form, a logo flashing by just long enough for the words 'better tomorrow' to be visible.

"Yes I.." And her digging has hit the jackpot. The images flash through her mind, and it was this moment that she was thankful that she lacked the empathy to feel the pain. She does clutch him hard, her violet eyes staring forward as she focuses in on that image, her teeth gritting to the point that they'd gash and break against the other. As soon as the logo was seen, she pulls out of his head, her hand drawing from him to press against her temple, her head shaking ever so slightly, but not enough to whip her wet hair around enough to make it hurt him. "You are -one- very complicated chap."

Jason just about stumbles over to one side, as these memories seemingly resurface on their own, mixing and moving about. He reaches into his pocket pulling out a small yellow unlabeled pill bottle filled with very large pills. He's not sure what to think about the current way things are going but he knows he doesn't like it. "I-what" is all he really manages to say while trying to fumble out his pills from the container in his hand without dropping the umbrella in the increasing rainfall.

Betsy stumbles with him, her grip super fast for a woman with her stature. She braces herself and him, giving him enough room to reach for the pills but.. she stops him. She didn't care if the umbrella fell, favoring the rain now more than ever because it was something that will keep him anchored. The pill hand was grabbed by her own, fingers covering the top so that he does not take, her eyes intent on his but not using her will just yet. "Stop. And breathe. You do not need that."

"You don't get it," Jason starts not really wanting to hurt the woman, yet obviously more then capable of trying with his level of fitness. "I need these to keep stable" he tries to explain his eyes looking a bit desperate as he moves his hand trying to get to the pills proper almost dropping the umbrella completely.

She pushes the umbrella out of his hand if the grip wasn't tight enough, now choosing the time to impose her will. "Be calm." She wasn't going to make him forget his past, no. That would be cheating, and a life wasted no matter how many times he could come back from the brink of death. Or death itself. "Listen to my voice. These pills are nothing but a crutch, an excuse, something you lean on that allows you ignore your past misdeeds and to confront the truth." She didn't care about getting hurt at the moment. Her actions almost speak of her begging for it. To feel like herself again. "It is alright to feel pain. It is alright to be afraid. It is alright to feel sorrow. And it's alright to -let- go." Her hand grips his tighter, keeping a hold on the pills, determined to not let him get it.

For a moment it looks almost like Jason's about to strike the woman raising a single hand, before just letting the arm drop completely the umbrella no longer there to keep either of them dry. He looks her right in the eyes, and while he'd like to scream at her, or hit her, or something, he just can't bring himself to do it. His job is to protect a certain individual, not to go around stabbing people young enough to be his granddaughter. So instead he just looks at her, still clutching onto that bottle she seems to think he doesn't really need. "You can't see what I can see", is the only thing he can eventually manage to say not sounding too sure of it himself as he speaks a lot on his mind at the moment.

She stood her ground, her jaw tensing, waiting for the strike that would never come. She wasn't even going to block it, she just held him there, one hand upon the arm and another atop of his. Her grip lightens just enough for her to smile. It was a tiny one, one that didn't hold the notion that she was gloating or that she had won at convincing him, one that was actually kind and filled with emotion that even she couldn't fake. "Yes I can." Her words were spoken with the utmost truth, the hand that gripped his arm reaching up to lightly touch his face. "You are special, and you have your demons. Just like me. And it's alright to be a little dark, to lose yourself. You can't come back to who you were before all of this, but you can come back to something more. Something better." That smile fades into a frown, her head tilting slightly. "It will only get worse."

"I never asked to be special," Whiskey bar, by the doors starting to play from the phone in his pocket ringing out, though Jason doesn't seem too interested in picking it up at the moment. He seems more interested at just getting "I don't want to keep coming back, I of all people don't deserve to be staying young and alive forever," "I- I'm not my father, and I'm certainly not Thomas" Betsy's words obviously cutting the well worn vet enough that he's opening up to her. He slowly places the pills back inside of the pocket of his already drenched suit. "But you're right," Jason letting out a low sigh through the water running down his face and onto his suit.

"No one ever asks to be special. There are times when I think that none of us are. It's what we do with it that makes us that way." Remy would roll over in his grave if he were dead had he knew that she gave someone a pep talk, but she was. One hand is placed upon his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You're Jason. And that's all you need to be for the people who need you." This was affirmed by a nod of her head, and a wry smile that soon told of a joke that was coming. "Of course I'm right, I'm a woman." She pats his shoulder now, then takes a step back. The umbrella begins to twirl with the threat of whisking away into the wind. This man was interesting, possibly another one that would make her feel as if she weren't slipping away into servitude.

Jason's expression falls back flat, as he picks the umbrella back up, raising it into the air to keep even more rain from falling onto the two. He's been given a lot to think about, and while he still can't fully force back what's going on around him the information is enough to keep him distracted at the least. "You remind me of a few people I used to know", Lucky trying to offer a small smile towards Betsy while popping the umbrella back round the right way so it's not collecting water as much anymore.

Her arms draw up around herself again to fight off the cold, her gaze falling towards the ground as she lets the silence take them. "I hope that's a good thing." She finally offers up, taking a step forward with a hand reaching out to lightly touch the middle of his forehead with her index finger. "I'm giving you directions to my flat here in New York. And my phone number. Call or come over if you need to. Or come if you want to get away." It was a quick exchange of information, a little map imprinted in his mind which gives the impression that he had been there already. Why would she trust him like this? Because even if he is older, she's still who she is. She could take him down repeatedly for the hell of it. She draws her hand away and offers a smile, backing away from underneath the umbrella to let the rain fall upon her shoulders.

With a slight movement of his hands, the umbrella is back in a comfortable hold to keep himself from getting anymore soaked then he already is. He turns back to the grave of the little girl, as his phone finally switches off to voice mail, placing his hand deep inside the pocket of his soaked suit. "Could say that" he says finally cracking a slight smile that looks to be more of a smirk then a full on smile at his own comment. "I'll think about it."

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