15681/Exclusivity - and Bad Science

Exclusivity - and Bad Science
Date of Scene:	12 October 2023
Location:	Hellfire Club - Manhattan
Synopsis:	Discussions were had regarding the Machinations of Improbability, the Dreamstalker and Fate came a'calling. Apparently riddles bring out the sarcasm in both Sin and Nick.
Cast of Characters:	Sinister, Psylocke, Phantasm (Drago), Doctor Fate
Tinyplot:	Shadow Prophecy

---

Sinister has posed:
If you're going to meet up with someone relatively clandestinely, you might as well do it in style. The Hellfire club, with its ancient origins in ultimate wheeler dealership, fierce freedom and independence and ostensibly ... deals with the devil himself, if the old stories are to be believed... has its private rooms and lounges for the elite of the elite. After all, senators and Nouveau Riche rub elbows in the main body of the place, but the truly powerful do get to have their audiences in privacy.

So it is Sinister is regarding a rather old painting from Civil war times, perched over a mantle in one of those private lounges. His eye travels over the oil paint, the brush-strokes and handiwork of a master, checks the carriage clock and adjusts the time by a fraction. He is attired in modern victorian, in that the materials are fresh, even if the styling has all the classics of well tailored gothique to it, a snifter of brandy in hand and rose coloured lennon spectacles perched on his nose. He's sporting a couple of ear-rings too and a finger claw in silver filigree, a serpent wending its way in articulated manner, biting at his knuckle and 'stinging' with its tail.

Psylocke has posed:
Betsy Braddock has been to many of the other Hellfire Club venues around the world, though it's fair to say she spent a lot more time in the original in London far more than the one in New York. In fact, she hasn't even darkened the halls since her return from her two year sojourn. But it's familiar. It's like stepping into a locale of welcome respite, a place where even in New York the refined is not only welcomed but /expected/ as a matter of course.

The violet-haired woman wears a loose silken green dress over a brown turtleneck, matching brown high heeled boots and of course a matching bag. Other than a pair of diamond earrings there's little about her to indicate her wealth, but then the truly wealthy don't /need/ to: they exude it in the way they comport themselves. "A relaxing change of venue from our last meeting, Nathaniel," Betsy says in a warm, amused voice, as she joins him and extends her hand. Her flickered glance at the painting is interested but it doesn't linger.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister smiles to the clockface, gently closing the front with a soft 'click'. He turns as she approaches, taking a single step in a pivot so that he's facing her and bows over the outstretched fingers, to kiss the air as is his custom, lifting the hand up in the wake of this like unto sending a butterfly into flight. "I figured I gave you the chalk last time, this time ought to be the cheese. I do hope you're well..." and as a gesture of identity, with a flex of the shoulders, the mantle of wings erupts from his back, raising high and wide, black and flame fringed, lit from the Beneath. When not viewed from a position of being confined in a cockpit where they just took up a stupid amount of space, they are QUITE large and not quite avian either, unlike Warren's. There's an extra joint in them and they seem to have 'tailfeathers' for steerage, below the regular flight and curtain pinions. He folds them after a couple of seconds, but doesn't 'put them away' entirely.

"I hope you were not caught in any kind of traffic, or problems getting here? And of course, fetching as always."

Psylocke has posed:
"I do like excellent cheese," Betsy says, but it's less his words and more then actions -- the airy kiss, the flutter of his fingers to push hers into the air -- that seems to please the woman more than anything. "Especially when it's paired with an appropriate drink." Her mouth parts, briefly, in mute surprise when he displays his wings, abruptly and without warning.

Her inhale is quiet, but she visibly takes a beat, like it affects her. It does take some will power not to reach out to touch them.

Betsy's expression, at least outwardly, is careful. "We do have much to discuss," she says, in lieu of answering the question of her wellbeing, which might be an answer in itself. "Mm. You know New York traffic. It is not a thing I have missed. And you always dress to impress, Nathaniel. I admire that about you. Too few men take the time these days."

Sinister has posed:
"Clothing makes the man, naked people have very little influence on society -- Mark Twain. I do admire good wit," Sinister inclines his head, measuring the moment for its due appropriation, with a nod of the head. These private lounges have their own drinks cabinets for self-service, with everything you could ask for and austrian crystal. He shoots his brandy back and gestures with the empty glass to THIS room's display of liquid libation, clicking heels and stalking over to it. Mahogany, opened with a flourish of be'ringed fingers, he steps aside again so she can take a good long look and make her selection.

"You can if you want to," he informs, casually. Some thoughts have nothing to do with the mind and everything to do with the bodylanguage. He glances sidelong to her.

"Ladies first, given that I have a tendancy at times to dominate the conversation. There's quite a bit on my end."

Psylocke has posed:
The selection is impressive, and many would probably be spoiled for choice. Not so Betsy: she's tasted almost all of the offerings at one time or another. Her booted heels click as she moves to the cabinet and regards the contents, choosing a specific gin and pouring some into one of those crystal glasses with a single ice cube.

She doesn't drink immediately, but instead walks over to seat herself, setting glass down and pulling a small, somewhat fire-damaged notebook from her purse, to offer to Sinister. "It's all we managed to salvage from the lair -- if it can be called that -- of your proto-scientist. I believe it's in code -- in code /and/ hideously scientific, which means it's your domain. Feel free to keep it. It is of no use to me anymore."

Betsy reaches for her glass. She takes the merest sip, and asks casually, "You mentioned some time back you knew a dream weaver. Would you be willing to introduce us?"

Sinister has posed:
Sinister selects cointreau, banana liquor and some fresh orange juice, taking a couple of moments to make a small pitcher of harvey wallbanger, which he brings over to where she's sat. It's set down before he takes the burned notebook with an arch of an eyebrow and a swish of coat-tails as he settles himself 'casually' graceful on a couch. Looking to the pages, the subtle eyelid movements and a raise of the feathers along the leading edge of his wings, tell the story of how swiftly he decoded the cipher.

A few pages are turned before he clucks his tongue. "Oh dear, oh deary dear, most of this is utter codswallop. I think somewhere along the line, this fellow's cheese slid clean off of his cracker. And I must say this is alarmingly like reading a copycat with half the skill and fifty times the hubris. He's liable to get himself into horrible trouble if he continues in that particular vein... because I guarantee you, he will not have the slightest clue that you cannot combine certain genetic traits without accidentally causing a cascade failure in function. Maybe he's combust himself and save you the trouble... but... how old is this?" He looks up at her afterwards.

Psylocke has posed:
She shouldn't be surprised he immediately gets into it. It seems to amuse Betsy, and is a thing she'll note for later. Take care when you hand Sinister a coded book. While he reads over it, she sips lightly at her drink, not hiding that she's watching him openly.

"I don't think he combusted himself. He left a trap behind, which suggests maybe he's moved onto other... possibly bigger quarters and ventures. I haven't heard of any more dead mutants turning up, but as for missing ones?" Betsy's lips thin briefly. "Those that are underground are by their nature impossible to track or warn sufficiently."

Betsy gestures to the journal. "That we collected a few days ago. But the place he had been at felt as if it had been empty for at least a little while. It was all but emptied out, this was what was left. It may have been left because it was older research. I couldn't discern any dates." And indeed, there are none. Some of the scrawl suggests it's written out of order, potentially. Whoever did write this does have a chaotic mind.

Sinister has posed:
Well, it's a thing. He might peruse it more thoroughly later, but hand the man a book of handwritten gibberish, he'll find the sense or nonsense in it fairly swiftly. "Lets hope he doesn't get as good as me and figure out how to maximize genetic potential from a given sample. His next endeavor is highly likely to be attempting to give the ability in the gene to a willing, or unwilling subject. It's a kind of... pattern." He says this with a soft sigh, closes the book and slips it into his inner coat pocket.

Legs are crossed casually at the knees and he leans sidelong against his elbow once again, looking at her under brows and over the brim of spectacles. "As to your question, I can certainly introduce you to the Dreamweaver of my aquaintence. I'll note... I actually care about him. It's a novelty, this thing called 'building friendship' which frankly I'm a little giddy on at the moment. Who knew I even could?" Small mouth, raised eyebrows, self-mockery.

"I take it the hunt there is going fairly well though? You don't require assistance, of any kind?"

Psylocke has posed:
"Let's hope," Betsy agrees, her smile bright over her glass. "One of you is more than enough for this world to handle." It seems to be a compliment, though it might be questionable given the pause and the question that follows: "Is that what you did?"

As he explains his relationship to the dreamweaver, Betsy lowers her glass, resting it on the arm of the chair she's chosen so she can better focus on him. "Nathaniel," she says, after a pause, as if picking her words. Her voice is soft, deliberately so: "You are astoundingly easy to like. You are intelligent and witty. If it weren't for that... pattern, you used to be in, you would probably have realized much sooner you could." Betsy, at least, doesn't seem surprised. Probably because it's been hard for /her/ not to like him despite being closest to those Sinister's hurt the most in the past.

"Not yet," as to needing assistance. "I have another lead to follow up on. And Scott's been helping out." Any wonder her gaze and attention is on him when she mentions that name, casually? "But I would guess soon, if we catch up to him. If I find a lab full of his research, I'm inclined to merely destroy it, if it is... as you say, like as not to lead to a dangerous pattern."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister nods to her, silently. There's a headtilt, a counterstudy as he attempts to work out whether she wants to probe further, spocking an eyebrow up at the rest of the words said with a tick of a smile, crooked and onesided. "You would not believe what I once was like. Some people have speech impediments that validate being garbage at conveying sentiment and explanation well. I didn't have that excuse, but I swear, it took nearly a century for me to realize that you get a lot more flies with honey than vinegar, unless they're drain flies of course. Weird little subset that throw everything off there. Exceptions, prove rules and all that. I found social interaction altogether vexing for the longest time, then didn't really care any more. Locking your emotions away does that." He shakes his head a bit, then shrugs as it's beside the point.

The mention of Scott merely gets him listening attentively. "Good to know he's still fighting the good fight and hasn't turned solely into a soldier for the cause. And I would burn it. And salt the earth."

He pours a harvey wallbanger now, taking a goodly sip of it with a sigh of satisfaction at the flavour. "Let me know if you do."

And then, with a clearing of the throat, he offers: "I've stabilized the actual infinite improbability drive, but I'm not altogether sure if there wasn't a very silly idea infused into it at the same time. However, it also has the potential to look back as well as forward now, I suspect. One of the Steven Strange's from a parallel universe sacrificed himself to infuse it, which means that the power of Time itself may have been worked into it."

Psylocke has posed:
"There's an interesting thought experiment in that; thinking about how people might change if they were given sufficient time to live. Alas, most will not have your opportunity of time." Betsy is at ease; she counts herself among those who won't, but she also doesn't seem like someone willing to commit to any kind of change in her admittedly at times reckless behavior. At least she's somewhat self aware.

"Yes, I imagine not having your emotions to moderate your interactions would... make things particularly troublesome." Understatement, but she gets it, also. It was part of Kwannon's training, and why the woman expresses herself in stark cold compared to Betsy's easy warmth.

"I will," of needing his help. "I'm afraid I will have to at some point -- not because I do not desire your help, but because it's likely to cause fractiousness in the group. As for burning and salting: that is easy enough." The intensity of Betsy's gaze eases. At least until he reaches the last. There's a shifting of eyes, and she deliberately takes the time to sip at the expensive liquid in the expensive glass before she ventures a response. "If I'm honest, I like how this sounds less and less. The more powerful this thing is, the more dangerous it is. To those who use it or those who plan to misuse it." A beat. "How do you plan to test it?"

Sinister has posed:
There's a nod to the cerebral exercise, along with a voiceless chuckle and a shrug of the shoulders. "One thing I might venture, is that when you have lots of time, so many individuals don't get their act together. It's not an excuse, having all the time in the world -- there IS no excuse for inaction. Regardless..." he waves that away as a pet peeve, making a plosive sound with his lips as he expells air rapidly.

"Weeeeeeeell... we're not at the testing anything stage. We've only just managed to essentially... stabilize the hard drive, so that the thing operates and make sure to maximize /and/ stabilize the energy source. We kind of set everything on the fritz when I was trying to get the capacitors not to overload. Aaaaaaaaaanyhoo..." he sucks on his front teeth a moment, then continues; in for a penny, in for a pound. "I have a problem there, which frankly I don't like to admit to."

Side-eyeing her, he rolls his tongue in his cheek and around the aforementioned teeth also. "New on this attempting friendly thing. And although I'm a bloody bonefide genius, if I do say so myself with utterly genuine humility" cough "...I don't want to be monocular in my approach. And I don't exactly know any other scientists except Strange, who is also a magician, often off his rocker and was a Neurosurgeon. Not an engineer. So. I am open to suggestions on the creation of the -interface-... which will be considerably more useful than a random ball that throws off random timelines."

Psylocke has posed:
"An eternity without change sounds like a very dull existence to me." Some people crave the idea of existing forever; Betsy, who /has/ died, doesn't seem to feel that way, and doesn't seem to feel the need to explain, either. She takes another sip from her glass; despite the free and open use of the liquor cabinet, that she imbibes slowly and deliberately is a choice.

Sinister really is someone for whom she needs -- or at least wants -- to have her full wits about when they talk.

Admitting to a fault is difficult for most people. For Sinister? It's surprising enough that even Betsy can't help the lift of brow that comes unintentionally in response to that confession. "An interface?" she echoes, head tilting to look at him as he gives her that side-eye. "Like... Cerebro?" there's no wariness here. "Well -- not like Cerebro, since you would want a non-psychic to be able to initiate, I assume. There's a balance to be struck between making it user-friendly and making it too easy. You should consider the worse case scenario of it falling out of your hands."

Sinister has posed:
"That is highly unlikely to happen, but that's also a thing, isn't it? Yes, yes," waving the hand off, so that it's at least aknowledged that he's not exactly the Man of the Year in anyone's view.

He eases back, using his wings as a cushion, which pushes the ailurions up like a high-backed chair, framing his head with it. They seem to protest this and flex, pushing him straight again, the outside one stretching out lazily, as if it had more in common with a feline than an avian. See what I did there? it seems to say. He narrows his eyes at it as it stretches fully out and 'smooths' itself on the back of the couch in a sweep. "Sod off." Muttered.

Then he looks back to Betsy, his demeanor getting more sombre than his oft-jovial presentation. "But yes. A little like Cerebro, in that the machine IS the dome, the podium and helm are the interface. The amplification effect comes from the sphere itself and the nature of the plates. What I thought might be advantageous, would be an terminal smart-interface, NOT powered by AI, because that's a recipe for disaster, with a genetic profile analyzer. That way, it should home in on the individual that their DNA, as opposed to any other individual in the room. I'm inclined to create a holoimager relay, also. But..." he spreads his hands and simply shrugs. "As I said. Monocular in the approach. I have the means to create governors on the power level, too. But we are genuinely pressed for time and I've never been one to be lazy about progress, even if I am as patient as the ocean itself."

Psylocke has posed:
The waving of his hand gets a quick smile from Betsy despite the dismissal. "It's a thing," she agrees, "But not /your/ thing." She doesn't try to stifle her amusement at the adjustment Nathaniel seems to be having with his wings. Her eyes are bright, as she suggests: "You should talk with Warren about how he deals with his." No, that's probably not the reason she'd like them to talk. As always, there's usually a second motivation, and if it brings harmony to the nascent team she's formed, all the better.

"So a control mechanism, tied to one person, and one person only?" Betsy says, with a slight frown. The frown is only for her concentration, rather than any kind of disapproval. "Tied to you alone, I assume?" she adds, fingers tapping against the still-full glass. That she doesn't express any opposition says a lot. As does what follows: "We are pressed for time, but the device will give us all the time in the world... if it doesn't first destroy it."

Sinister has posed:
"THey speak arameic, predominantly, which I'm exceptionally spotty on. AS noted, they're the gift with purchase, as it were." Sin looks at the smug limb as it finally quivers itself to contentment and folds neatly once again. He looks up and away for a moment, then pulls his phone from his pocket, sending out a quick text...

...Elsewhere, someone's phone goes and tweets. Elsewhere STILL a limosine sets off to pick someone up from the airport.

"When they first manifested, it took me quite a while to figure out how to put them -away- again, as they don't behave like normal metamorphic growths. Admittedly, I was slow on the uptake, but... first city, first language, I had to ask Lucifer what 'go away' was in the old tongue." He shakes his head with it. "They still sometimes rebel. Probably something to do with their -origin- too, given the facts. But I'm glad their misbehaving gives you a bit of amusement." That's actually with a grin that flashes dimples. No, really? Really.

His harvey wallbanger is sipped and cigarettes are removed from his jacket, one tapped down astutely and the silver case proffered if she wants to entertain her fingers with one.

"Well, the controller notion isn't individual specific in the way you're thinking. Think about it like paired capacitors in a alternating current, keeping the energy flowing properly. Control which individual is being the target of the improbability drive. But now that YOU mention it, a two-man key would probably be appropriate. Extra safety net."

Psylocke has posed:
"Oh, yes. Amusing because it is not me wrestling with wings that have a mind of their own and... only speak arameic. Which I'm also not familiar with, unsurprisingly." Betsy's voice is dry. There's a slight lean forward, the only betrayal of her interest. "Do they like to be touched?" The question isn't idle; it's partly an offer, but done in such a way that it can be easily side-stepped as one.

A slight shake of the Englishwoman's head answers the offer of that case. She lifts her glass: still full.

"I would prefer if someone else other than you was required, yes. Given your... situation. As you said, one cannot trust you." Betsy echoes his words back to him, and yet: everything she does seems to suggest that /she does/.

Sinister has posed:
"No matter how we like to think we're above it, Shadenfreude is rooted in almost every mind." With a chuckle, Sin tilts his head at the inquiry, birdlike which is also appropos. "Yes," the reply is simple and the one closest to her lifts up, extends a little toward her, still mostly folded, the leading edge and primaries extend partially, like a spreading hand. He watches her closely though, lashes half lidded as his smoke is ferried to his lips, cupped so that he can light it with a flick of a zippo, clacking it shut with a flick of the wrist and an inhale-exhale puff that wreathes him in the scent of cloves.

"Indeed. By the by, my friend is likely incoming. Car is picking them up from the airport as we speak."

Psylocke has posed:
Some things transcend the language barrier. It is a thing Betsy has learned, after touching the minds of many -- human, mutant, alien and otherwise. When he extends one of those wings towards her, Betsy's left hand stretches out in turn. Her fingers are gentle, brushing down along the feathers, with a familiarity that suggests she's done this before. Just not to /these/ specific wings.

Betsy lets a little old, familiar fondness slip into her gaze as she completes the gesture. It's familiar -- and she's showing a little too much of herself, wholly aware of it a second later. It's why she gives Nathaniel a steady look and lets her hand fall back curl around her glass.

"You should try a warm washcloth," she says, not-very-randomly. "Comforting without being soaked." Don't ask her how she knows what /wings/ want. Her gaze sharpens in focus at the latter words. "Your friend?" she echoes, and then realizes with a surprise. "The Dreamweaver?"

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
While the locale was lovely, after about two months worth of filming, rehearsals, and concerts, Nick was finding it a good feeling to fly back home. Well, save for the tired that comes with air flight. But, fly he did and as soon as the airplane mode was turned off on his phone...

Beep.

There it is.

Fortunately, Wade had also been traveling with him and upon a quick explanation, the manager took over on some logistical issues of the unplanned pick up.

So armed with just the clothes on his back, the ponytailed musician steps out and finds himself getting into the limo he was directed to. His attire is likely not of the Hellfire club sort. He had dressed for air flight. Comfort plus low-key presentability. So beyond a nice pair of slacks, a gray henley shirt and a...comfortable coat, the rock star turned actor was wearing those sensible sneakers once more.

That's right people.

Nick reuses clothes.

The horror.

Sinister has posed:
There's a very faint little twitch of lips up at the corners by Sin. Probably, because of the familiarity displayed, but he's seen this woman with the mutant code-named Archangel. He isn't blind, or incapable of empathy. At least not any more. The feathers are strong, as one would expect them to be, soft and warm. The short ones atop the wing lift up and fluff with the contact, flattening afterwards as the limb withdraws. "A warm washcloth? I shall have to remember that. Most of the time, they want to be used more than I let them," the response is quiet, then with a nod he confirms the question as to who. He lifts his drink to finish it, indulges comfortably in the smoke. It won't take long... just enough time for the motorcade of one vehicle can pull on up in Manhattan's ritziest neighborhood and disgorge a moderately famous face. Doormen hold doors open here. Clerks and staff lead distinguished guests to where they're expected. Money definitely talks like a foghorn.

This lounge is definitely old-worlde in styling, with american classic paintings, carriage clocks, chesterfields... and a private bar. And two occupants, the familiar face of which looks up to the door a moment before it's opened for Nick.

Psylocke has posed:
"It sounds like they are telling you exactly what they need. They do not like to be bound. They want to fly free. I'm afraid you'll need to indulge them. You do not want resentful wings," Betsy says, some of that warmth still lingering.

Betsy Braddock has the bearing of someone who /belongs/ in the Hellfire Club. Her parents, and grandparents, and ad infinitum, have been a part of the original branch in England forever. The only thing that feels out of place about her is her physical appearance: her refined English bearing inside a Japanese appearance and the brilliant shock of violet hair and eyes. Yet she's undoubtedly dressed the part, the flattering silken green dress over turtleneck, high heeled boots effortless elegance perhaps contrasted with Nick's choice for comfort.

Understandable, on such a long flight.

Betsy has her hand coiled around a barely touched crystal glass when she looks up. She recognizes Nick. It's the kind of moderately famous that probably put them in similar circles when she modeled: of course, she looks very, very different now. She sets aside her glass, but waits for introductions, as is proper, even while her curious gaze takes the new arrival in.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
From Nick's own perspective, the limo ride was short. His eyes closed just briefly when the car was pulling out of the pickup lane at JFK and when he opened them, there he was in the Upper East Side. A brief glance is given to his favorite gym in the area, sporting some nice climbing walls in the back of the building.

Another glance is given to the Museum of Art to which there is a brief curious thought towards what the featured exhibit may have switched to this month.

As the vehicle comes to a stop outside of the club, Nick looks to it. "...Huh." As the door is opened, the musician steps out and makes his way in. Familiar with the concept of handlers, he's aware of what they're doing when they guide him back. But being this particular building is not his scene, then by all means. Drifting more into his performer persona, he allows for them to guide away. Making a mental note to maybe look at the more interesting paintings a bit closer a bit later.

Upon the doors opening. Nick's eyes set upon Sinister first and he starts to smile the familiar face. Sure, he's a bit tired. But he can put rest off a bit more for a friend. Nick's head turns slightly, taking in Betsy. The smile, remains as he turns it towards her, though it lacks a bit of the warmth given to the doctor. The practiced, pleasant, but non-commital variety that those in those circles know of.

Nick looks back over to Sinister. "Good to see you again." He greets.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister actually stands up when Nick actually makes it with the escorting, through to the private lounge where they're holed up. The wings raise a moment, the fold of them arching behind his shoulders, then settle with a little whirr. "You also, I'm hoping that business class found you at least able to nap a little on the flight?" Flight?? another little whirr from the wings. "I'm glad you could join us. It's just myself and miss Braddock here. Betsy Braddock, may I present Nick Drago. Nick, this is Lady Betsy Braddock," with an open palm, like he was presenting a grandiose thing, he gestures from the one to the other and vice versa. "Coffee? I think I can arrange one if you like. If not there's a pitcher of wallbanger." Pause "I think I'm on somekind of kick with those."

He settles afterwards arranging himself so that the pinions can fold over the BACK of the seat, uninhibited.

"Now, to be a little bit cheeky..." To Betsy "...Psylocke." to himself. "Mister Sinister, though I do just prefer Sinister these days. Mister...I really don't know what I was thinking there..." and to Nick. "The Phantasm."

Psylocke has posed:
The gracefulness with which Betsy rises speaks to some kind of genteel upbringing. Betsy recognizes Nick's smile for what it is -- a practiced mask. It doesn't seem to bother her, however; her smile is warm and genuine as she extends a hand towards him.

"It is genuinely delightful to meet a friend of Nathaniel's. Even if he didn't warn he who you were," there's a flickered look towards Sinister, but there's nothing reproachful in it: if anything violet-haired woman seems amused. "I've heard your work, though I've never had the pleasure of seeing you perform in person."

Sinister's cheekiness is met with a level look from Betsy, who relents a second later into a laugh. "A secret I trust you can keep, Mr. Drago. I'm not out. Not because it would tank the family business stocks -- although it would. The sort of work I do is best done out of the spotlight these days." A beat. "I was hoping I might avail you of your services -- though not tonight. I suspect a good night's sleep necessary for you. Next time, insist Nathaniel flies you first class."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Despite his initial greeting, the presence of the red tinged black wings coming from Sinister's back doesn't escape Nick's notice. The performer doesn't show any signs of surprise to their presence, having seen them before. But there is a general thought process upon them.

Angel style wings can be so pretty. And they seem to come in a lot of variety. Thoughts of the Lux when Lucifer and Sin both had their wings out to block the view of him from another. With time separated from the urgency of the situation, there's more time to recall that the bright white of the one set and the black of the others complimented so well.

Talk of the flight plus the glimpse of the wings shifting causes for Nick to chuckle. "I'll spare you from the 'boy are my arms tired' joke." He pauses, "The flight was okay. But sleep is as you might expect on a plane."

As the time of introductions are being made, Nick looks over to Betsy once more when indicated. The name mentioned does stir a bit of surprise as the face he's presented with is not the one he associates with that name. He doesn't press the issue. A head tilts to her. "Good evening, Betsy." He greets, subtly hinting that first names or, in his case, nicknames are fine to use.

The offer of coffee causes for Nick to turn his head to Sinister, "Coffee is a definite yes." He responds, giving a nod to go with the agreement to doubly emphasize the need for it. "And yes, I seem to recall you ordering a few of those on your visits."

Hearing Betty's admission that she wasn't told who he was, Nick's smile warms up a little. "Well, I don't believe his text message mentioned you either so, I believe we're on equal footing with that at least."

The mention of not being able to see him perform in person has him glance aside. "I have been a bit... lax with public performances the past few years," He admits. Thoughts of different walls exploding and a cabin being overrun by fed types come into mind. "But, I'm hoping things have been settled to where I can rectify that soon." A glimpse of different set of fed types raiding an office environment. "So, maybe you'll have chances to see me play in the future."

Following suit with Sinister, he moves to a seat to sit down. Listening to the exchange of ... code names?

Nick glances over to Psylocke and then back over to Sinister. He chuckles to the mention of the 'Mister' tagged onto his. "You are a very formal sort." He allows. He's not surprised at all. Although-

"'The'? If we must, Phantasm will do. Quick and to the point."

As Betsy asks for discretion, Nick looks over to her. "...What secret?"

Sinister has posed:
Sinister's eyes half-lid again, as the familiar Assault-of-the-Nick-Mind transpires. He at least, is familiar with it and adopts the teflon coating to allow most of it to slide off and settle down to be picked at later when he's dwelling on things. "Right. Nathaniel, Nick and Betsy..." there's a flash of grin, open mouthed and roguish with the white of teeth. "I've been catching Betsy up on the progress with the Infinite Improability drive -- it was with her help that we were able to figure out that her incoming apocalypse is tied to our ongoing issue with the Apophis stones. They're in fact, inextricably linked. The one feeds the other -- and we've got a fair amount of quantum entanglement going on."

Looking over at the coffee maker briefly, it starts itself up, a cup floating over and various extras that he's aware Nick tends to have. Telekinetic hosting is a thing that can be done when you're casual about who and what you are.

"She has also been helping with the Traumas that errupted out of the Astral plane. We've been... working on establishing a relationship, given that I will do what others are less inclined toward, as well you know, Nick."

Psylocke has posed:
The confusion over Betsy's appearance not matching a name that is recognized is expected. The woman simply doesn't address it, since Nick doesn't voice it aloud. That he doesn't accept her hand is glossed over with the kind of ease of someone well practiced in manners, and his use of her first name makes her smile. It's not unwelcome, but the leap to casual isn't, as he observes, normal for her. There are normally proprietaries to be observed, but she's nothing if not adaptable.

Two graceful steps carry her back to reclaim her seat, though she does not seek to reclaim the barely touched glass of dark liquid that sits on the arm. Not yet.

There are benefits and drawbacks to being a telepath. Sometimes deliberate -- and sometimes unintentional snooping. It's very possible the ease with which Betsy adapts to Nick has to do with the chaotic nature of his thoughts she senses. Not all of them merely in his head, either. When he leaps to asking her about secrets, there's a lift of her brow, and her gaze slants towards Sinister as he catches them both up on what the other knows. "I'm fairly motivated to resolve the issue, whatever it takes. In my circles that kind of attitude is more dimly regarded -- as is my willingness to work with Nathaniel. It has cost some allies, given his... past history. But I'm not afraid of the price, only the price of /not/ acting."

Now, Betsy reaches for her glass, but it is more prop than need. "One of my gifts -- not one well know by many -- is that I have prophetic visions. An unfortunate staple for me for the last two years has been a particularly insidious one that we have tied to the Apophis stones. I have taken care in who I have shared the specific of these visions to. I have shared the dream, directly, with only a handful of people." Her fingers tap against the glass, like she's picking her words carefully, as her gaze comes to rest on Nick. "The other thing you should know about me is that I am a psychic, with a very strong mental shield. There is little reason to believe anyone could have plucked this out of my head without my being aware of it."

"That is all, to preface, why I asked Nathaniel to introduce us. Which is that I had a particularly unsettling dream some evenings ago. It featured the same vision I normally have -- New York, and despair, destruction and death. I have experienced many variations over the past couple of years, but this was... different." A pause. Her words sharper, shorter: almost angry. The warmth of earlier has leeched away. "Someone was aping Archangel, one of my teammates. He died in my arms blaming me for the outcome." Her expression is even, voice cold. Given Betsy's connection to Warren it's probably little surprise, at least to Sinister, that Kwannon steps in. "It was Cyclops' behavior that told me I was dealing with someone who was altering the vision, though. Seeking -- I can only assume -- to sow doubt and strife. I did my best to strike at the one responsible -- I'm not sure if I managed to hurt them or not. I'd like to know how they got in -- how to stop them coming back, if possible." The graceful woman leans forward, just a little, towards Nick. "Is that something you think you could assist with, Nick?"

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Nick blinks. Another apocalypse on top of the stone thing? Oh lovely. Which one is this one going to be? Demonic, another asteroid, alien, futuristic, or time traveling sorcerer? Although the last time traveling sorcerer did make it easy by apparently getting bored and going back home to his timeline.

He thinks.

Either way no one's heard from that guy since the giant scorpion monster just outside-

Actually just around the corner from here. Right outside his gym. Oh that was a very messy day.

Not as bad as it was for Iron Man but quite up there.

Nick reaches up to accept the cup. Nothing else floats over. "Thank you." he states to Sinister as he sips the beverage a bit.

The mention of the traumas make him think of the time he got portaled half asleep to half-assedly cast ...something to assist them with something while lying down. "...The fungus thing? Or was that a cockroach straddling both planes?" He was tired and doesn't even remember what he said. Just that he wanted whatever those things were to go away and leave the planes alone. Considering no one spoke of it, he assumes it worked. Or they were so horrified they didn't want to speak of it again. Who knows?

Betsy's mention of prophetic dreams gets a bit of a brow raise as he glances back over to her. For the briefest of moments he wonders if there's the possibility of a third slayer existing but considering the presence of Uriel and what Sinister was doing with the feather- he rules that out quickly. There are those who dream of alternate versions of themselves too. To limit prophetic dreams to just the Slayers would be...

Well, short sighted.

As Psylocke starts to speak of why she wished to be introduced to him, he quiets. Consciously focusing on the story save for the glimmers of darker entities wandering in shadows of other dreams. It's times like this he wishes the book in his mind didn't have so many pages stuck together.

Nick hmms, glancing over to Sinister as the story had similarities to the one he told.

Nick looks to his mug. "Dreams can be chaotic." He comments. "I could probably argue dreams are chaotic in general. A lot of times it's the mind trying to sort through the memories acquired. Processing them. Maybe working out something that's been bugging you but you didn't want to focus on it in the waking hours."

But...

"There's a lot to them."

A flash of battle fields. People dying. Fire. People burning. Monsters. Human and otherwise.

"There are those who travel through dreams. Live in them. Most don't interfere or quietly observe but others-" A comatose child, monstrous creatures again and again...

"...It depends on what you're willing to let me do. If you think they'll come back I could step into your dreams to help confront or observe. If you just need a break from the dreams, I could take them away for a couple days." He looks over to Sinister, "I could even escort someone with bigger guns inside, if they don't already have the capability."

Sinister has posed:
"I do. But I don't generally speaking. Dream travel for me is a lot more complex than it is for you," Sinister notes to Nick's look, but he's frowning now. All that Betsy just said, resonates.

"Strange images that superimpose at the edge of vision, of an individual that looks considerably like the stereotype of the Grim Reaper? You seem to have been Dreamstalked. I was too, but they did not succeed with me in the slightest. Actually... gave in to me."

That might say something. In fact, it probably says volumes, but then, Sinister's often underestimated mostly because nobody can definitively tell just exactly what he -can- do. "Shame really. I would've liked to tear their mind to pieces when I got conscious enough."

His wings rustle, then after a little bit of fierce concentration, he kind of falls back in his seat a bit with a grab for the arm of the chair as they vanish.

"I'll pay for that later, I suspect." He looks singularly at Betsy, then with a gesture of one hand in a 'scale' of finger movement, conjours a mental illusion of the 'fritzing' image of the hooded and cowled individual that was in HIS sleeping mind.

Psylocke has posed:
Trying to follow Nick Drago's thoughts is an exercise in distraction and possibly madness. Betsy does not try. She gets a sense of /another apocalypse/ that makes even Kwannon tic, a little -- not /quite/ a smile but almost -- and the rest mostly floats past her awareness.

"Dreams can be chaotic," Betsy agrees, blandly. "And visions more so. They are rarely so clear and direct and pointed -- the /point/ of them is that they are a slice of possibility, that we, our brains, is unable to fully encompass. This, though? The intent behind it -- it was clear. It was a calculated mind. It didn't feel like-" she trails off, her gaze flickers towards Sinister then to the ceiling. "-the others. It was a blade, wielded with the intention to wound, to harm, to spill open old scars. To create doubt and fear."

Was it successful? There's nothing in her expression -- in Kwannon's cold features now wearing her face -- to suggest so.

Her cool gaze considers the options offered by Nick. "They have not reoccurred. The other visions... are a part of me." Which is not an answer as to whether she needs a break or not. Then again, maybe it is, just not a direct one. The woman's gaze follows Nick towards Sinister, where he reveals a similar experience. She exhales, slowly. "No. They jumped from one figure to another, as far as I could discern. I was not able to pry them loose -- I suspect they let go when I stabbed them." Mentally, as it were. "So someone targeted you -- and me. Could this be related to the Apophis stones? Has Lucifer had a similar intrusion?"

"For what it's worth, they have not been back. Whatever they intended to achieve... either they failed or succeeded. If there was some way to try and track them after the fact I would consider it, but..." she spreads her hands, looking quizzically at Nick. She assumes that's not possible. Then again, she's not the dreamwalker.

Doctor Fate has posed:
The strands of Fate are moving.

The air shifts and tenses, as if awaiting something. The hair stands on end. Even Nabu stands on the edge of his seat. Chaos is moving, threatening the natural order. Not only is the physical realm in some threat, but the world of Morpheus lies in danger of such cruel invasion. These visions...a part of one and yet controlled or calculated potentially by another. Dreams are the realm of chaos...only quieted by the hand of Order.

by the hand of Fate.

While the trio of Psylocke, Sinister, and Drago are conversing amongst each other, a golden ankh appears in the middle of the room, radiating with great mystical power. As the ank appears, it stands as though it were a doorway and walking through it was a man in golden armor, complete with helmet and cape. The interconnecting pieces of his equipment was colored in shades of blue and black. His cloak touched the floor, his feet were covered by golden greaves, as were his arms clothed in golden gauntlets.

Doctor Fate had arrived.

"Chaos's soft touches have been felt here. A dreamwalker prowls. You have felt it's effects. Order is contaminated by chaos and must be excised."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Like a child with a short attention span so waivers the thought process of one Nick Drago. But to his credit he does get to the destination...eventually.

Nick looks to Sinister as he responds, giving a nod. The general look the doctor gives shows that he too recognizes the theme of the story. An attack which the doctor managed to halt. With no help whatsoever. Perhaps all that's needed for Betsy is for them to share notes.

He fixates on the mental image shared. The image is less pleasant than the apple faced woman shared a bit ago, but the imagery is necessary. The hooded nature seems familiar. Almost- Another hooded figure comes to mind. But more as the form of a reflection in someone's eye but jagged teeth and glowing eyes stand in for the shadow where a regular face should be. A similar source of power perhaps?

Nick grumbles. "Some people just can't handle re- Well, I can keep an eye out the next time I-"

There is an ankh in the room.

...what?

Seriously. There is an ankh in the room! With the general entrance being made, Nick halts in his discussion and lifts up his cup to sip his beverage during the presentation. Due to the helmet upon the newest entrant's head, there's no room for recognition of the man behind it. Which, might be a good thing.

Because right now he's not sure if this guy is referencing HIM or the guy they had just been talking about. And he might be.. just a little, mildly offended. And he might have said something along the lines of 'Oh come on. I'm Sitting Right here!' or something of that nature.

But that'd probably be ill advised if he's talking about excising.

But there is still a need for clarity.

"Just to be clear, are you referencing the guy we were just talking about? Because if so. Then yes. He sounds like quite a dick."

Sinister has posed:
And with the arrival of the Ankh, Sinister shoots his drink all the way back, swallowing it in one go. Down the hatch, refill. Take another clove cigarette out and as the gilded one arriveth, puff it to life. He carefully and conscienciously shaves the cherry to a fine point. "You know, at this point, he could be referencing just about anything, anyone or nothing at all that pertains to now. Good gravy, things can get tangled sometimes..."

Ash is flicked, another satisfying drag of the smoke is taken and he stares at where the Ankh was, where the Golden hand of Fate stands and tilts his head.

"Maybe it's the egyptian theme. I swear, if you're here to tell me about the issue with Apocalypse, I already know and I'm really miffed about it. And the bloody Black King needs his head sorted out. But you're probably not, so... /which/ mess of chaos are you referring to and who, erm... /are/ you?"

Psylocke has posed:
Given how Betsy Braddock has comported herself to date, with the genteel manner of born aristocracy, her swift movement might be wholly unexpected. She surges up from her seat as that glimmer of gold comes into being, and by the time Doctor Fate manifests, there's a gleaming, purple knife angled at a very sensitive part of his body.

No, not that one, just the kidney.

"Another friend of yours, Nathaniel?" the ninja asks from behind Doctor Fate. And when it seems like the answer is negative, she holds in place.

As if this were perfectly normal.

"Yes, I think introductions are in order when one /manifests/ without warning." Guess who gets to go first?

Doctor Fate has posed:
Doctor Fate remains where he is, the Ankh seemingly dissipating into nothing but golden motes of light behind him until they fade from existence. Yet, as Nick questions the nature of Doctor Fate's arrival, eyes turn to rest upon him. "...this definition is accurate, one who is known as Phantasm. I understand you have experience dream travel yourself, including being able to act independently within the dreamscape. This will be necessary in the coming days."

There is a knife pointed at his kidney.

A psionic, purple knife in particular. Yet, Fate doesn't seem alarmed by it in the slightest. Either he's not intimidated by Psylocke or this method will fail to harm him. Currently unknown if other scenarios exist. "No." He answers her specifically.

Though Sinister's question seems to have the most weight. "I have no care for En Sebah Nur. The threads of destiny move strongly around him, the tithes of the would-be tyrant's final destination guide him towards his destination. I care not for interpersonal issues regarding Sebastian Shaw." When the being speaks, it speaks as if in two voices.

A possession?

"I am a Lord of Order, mystic defender of the mortal plane, guardian of the cosmic balance. Humanity calls me Doctor Fate." He answers.

"The dreamscape is in peril. It sows fear. Doubt. Terror. From mind to mind, like an infection. Dreams are the birthplace of ambition. For it to be weaponized in this way jeapordizes the human mind, the human *soul*."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Man that helmet is shiny.

As Psylocke moves, Nick's head tilts as he's slightly reminded of others. Buffy back when they trained with Escrima. Well, when she remembered him. Natasha during the rescue missions, heck a few of the ninjas when they were going through that warehouse. So perhaps she can forgive him when his brain eventually settles on 'she moves like a ninja'. Considering the purple...thing being held to Goldyhead, that's not pulling him away from the thought.

As the helmeted one speaks, Nick looks back over to him. Which isn't hard considering whose kidney is being held hostage. The double voice itself is odd as well. In a way it reminds him of kids with those voice changer masks where you end up hearing an itsy bitsy voice paired with a James Earl Jones Mockup repeating what is said. But the general timbre of the voice behind the mask doesn't quite need as much help to get to that tone.

On the bright side, it isn't Nick that the newly named Fate doesn't seem pissed off with. So that's a plus. But still... as Nick nods to the general assessment that there is a problem with dreams at the moment, he can't shake a feeling.

"Yeah I had a feeling I'd be having to hop back in soon. But... uh random question."

He looks to the masked figure, "Do I know you? I mean, not like this but...something about you just- I don't know." He takes a sip of his coffee. Pondering.

He's sure he's heard that voice before but unfortunately. He's heard a LOT of voices. It's kind of a career related hazard.

Sinister has posed:
"I hate to say it old chap, but the dreamscape is constantly in peril of people having nightmares. They're part and parcel of people, I'm afraid. But if you're meaning that annoyance..."

Sinister finally looks to Psylocke, "...you might not have got a good whiff of that individual but -I- did. I could find them, if I put the entire of my attention to it. Your mind is powerful, but it's a jackhammer which is not a fine instrument. It doesn't do the fiddly little bits." He doesn't so much tell her to stand down, but he does gesture to the seat she'd vacated, looking to Fate once again.

"Questions from my companion aside dear chap, I would gather you came because you got the calling. But you did manifest in the middle of our private lounge, in the middle of a private conversation. So, take a seat and be a little more expressive and a little less enigmatic. We'll probably be a bit more enlightening and elucidating if you do." And another gesture, this time at a different seat.

"Be our guest."

Psylocke has posed:
The lack of reaction by the intruder doesn't change Psylocke's posture in the slightest. Plenty of people have underestimated the ninja's abilities -- and why shouldn't they? She looks more like a model than a killer.

Truth is, she's both.

A tension manifests in the violet haired woman as the intruder mentions Apocalypse. For a heartbeat her eyes narrow... and then her posture eases at whatever she senses. The cool violet eyes of the ninja soften as the psychic knife disappears, and she instead takes a step and holds out a hand towards Doctor Fate. "Lady Elizabeth Braddock. Most call me Betsy." She doesn't directly invite him to do the same, but leaves the thought there.

By pure coincidence -- or maybe overhearing him -- Betsy glances towards Nick, and there's a smile. It might be a bit unsettling, how readily she shifts from a cool, disassociated demeanor to the relaxed, seemingly genuine warmth she manifests now. "Fate," she suggests.

The violet haired woman regards Sinister with a knowing smile. He's not incorrect in any of his words, and she's hardly about to turn down a potential solution. "If you can play the bloodhound then I will gladly accompany you -- and make my displeasure known in person."

Doctor Fate has posed:
Phantasm's question towards Fate earns an eerie sort of silence. "You know me and you know nothing of me." Is all he tells Nick, an answer within an answer that just creates nothing but more questions. It's enough to probably get plenty of wheels turning. He seems to keep those eyes on him for a moment, as if peering int othe very depths of his soul. He's heard that voice before. He's heard every voice before in the fragments of his mind. Can he choose the correct one? Are *any* of them the correct one?

For the moment, this being's identity beyond what he has spoke nis a mystery.

Yet, out of all of them, Psylocke shows the most decorum. Her weapon fades away and slowly, eyes shift towards her as she extends her hand. "Lady Elizabeth Braddock. Betsy. Psylocke." The being speaks, a gauntleted hand extended to take hers. It's almost robotic in his motions, old and ancient. Yet the grip is /strong/, yet gentle all at the same time. "A pleasure." He states with a calm.

Yet, those eyes shift towards Sinister. "Nightmares are part of the balance. Dreams are the positive, nightmares the negative. The reaction, the equation balances itself in harmony. Good and evil coexist at the center of the blade. This..entity seeks to disrupt it, giving the darkness more power. Feeding off you. Success or failure. It /learns/. Your privacy is meaningless in the face of a danger which left unchecked will grow in strength. The future hangs in the balance. I have seen the consequences of failure. Always in flux. The future is never set. Failure...I would not advise it. Three are chosen. Three will finish the tale of woe." He suggests to Sinister rather pointedly.

Yet, Fate stands tall, denying any offer to sit and despite the polite demand, remains as enigmatic as ever.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Nick looks back to the helmet. Somewhat at a disadvantage being Fate is the only one who took the time to hide who they are. Nick is very much without a mask and exposed. As for the riddle the musician nods. "That's a very roundabout way of saying vaguely acquainted." Nick comments. Seriously a 'kind of' would have been sufficient.

"I suppose I'll come along in case he tries to make a physical escape into the dream worlds." Nick comments.

Yes.

Plural. See, You got the collective ones and then all the individual islands of imagination. The islands are more dangerous and prone to collapse but also much more diverse. The collective ones are more stable but as such there's more of a likelihood of something living there. The islands are only visited. He glances over to Sinister and Psylocke. One. Two...Three.

He looks over to Fate, "Ok so- basically your visit was an indirect way of saying 'You're on your own.' to us. Great. Thanks." Fate is rewarded with a hearty thumbs up.

Sinister has posed:
"Well, that's more than less than helpful. I'm suddenly feeling terribly enlightened," Sinister says drily and deadpan. Then there's a sigh and he leans forward to stub his smoke out, nodding to Psylocke at her agreement. "We'll see what we can muster, I'm sure of that." Pause, beat. "All that we discussed and -this- is what requires focus, it seems? I have to wonder about the Order of the Universe's sense of priority." He mutters this to himself, laces fingers over his midriff and leans back in his seat, walking his shoulders into the apolstery a little, as if scratching the wing itch.

He returns his attention to Fate, polite, but now notably silent. Maybe there'll be more riddles? He doesn't unlace his fingers as he points an index at Psylocke, then at Nick, then his thumb at himself. One, two, three. Got it. He nods firmly, though perhaps he might be taking the mick a bit, given the glance to Nick after. And back to Fate.

"So, you came about that but did NOT come about the Primary feather of Uriel being awakened? I have to hear the story behind that one."

Psylocke has posed:
There are some rituals, nearly as old as humanity, that convey more than the mere sentiment of their being. Handshakes are one such. An offered palm is a show of openness, signaling an intention for peace. But it also lends itself to learning more about the one being met, and there's a curiosity evident in Betsy's regard of Doctor Fate before that contact parts.

"I, too, have seen the price of failure, and am not content in seeing it come to pass. If you can be an ally, so the better." If not, well... that can be dealt with too. But the threat isn't really manifest: she's merely stating truth. Betsy steps to reclaim her seat, though not her largely untouched drink.

"I don't think he can help himself, Nathaniel. Do you sense it? That other being? Like-" Betsy gaze goes distant, "-another figure standing behind him. /That/ one does not think like us, nor in our frame of reference. I don't think /he/ knows how to be straightforward. It is, like my visions, a thing impossible to convey with mere words or images our brains can comprehend."

Her gaze refocuses just in time to hear Sinister asking about the Archangel's feather. She doesn't wince, but it's a near thing. It makes her twitchy as heck.

Doctor Fate has posed:
"Incorrect."

Fate's voice echoes towards Nick Drago. "Also Incorrect." He tells Sinister. Though an explanation is likely demanded, the one they get will most likely be unsatisfying. "You three must remain the tip of the spear. Lest the hands of Order be tilted unfavorably towards the Great Balance and give Chaos the upper hand." Clearly Order and Chaos in this instance are less organizations and more powerful concepts that Fate serves and opposes, respectively. "Where you will be the attack, I will serve as the defense." How?

No explanation is given.

However, his attention does shift to Sinister. "The feathers of Uriel being awakened is ultimately harmful and reckless. There will be a *recompense*." He informs Sinister. "But whether the winds of Fate are unfortunate or fortunate indeed towards you, the act of awakening the feathers of an Archangel shall be answered in it's own time, in it's own course. /After/, not /before/." A threat and a promise all at once, and it feels as though reality buckles and mends simultaneously. Powerful magic at work here.

His gaze turns to Psylocke. He says nothing, yet the psionic can potentially sense...approval? It's a strange thing, if this being can convey approval at all. She seems to be on the proper track!

With ever so slight a gesture of the hand, the golden Ankh reappears in brilliant light.

"The tides of destiny ever shift, ever change. You have chance, you have will. Yet ever does the bell toll. Act swiftly. Act wisely. The words are not yet etched in stone."

He turns then, and makes his way for the portal, a portal that closes behind him after he passes through.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Nick glances over to Sinister as he brings up the feather. A brow lifting as he looks back over to Fate. When Psylocke points out another being, Nick nods. "Yeah, the voice modulation effect is kind of telling. The underlying voice is what sounds familiar to me but-."

There's a bit of a pause, "...Yeah I have bad days too with abilities."

When Fate states they are incorrect, Nick looks over to Fate for his explanation. The fingers, point to each of them, silently counting them out before landing on Fate. There's a slow nod. "...Ok so you are going to help. Which is good. But, that also does it. If we're still speaking around Christmas time, I'm getting you an abacus." There's a slight uptilt of the lips after making the statement, watching the helmeted man vanish.

Nick glances over to Sinister, "...So. Scale of One to Ten. Based from what he's saying. How screwed are we?"

Sinister has posed:
"Beats me. I'm not much of a believer in Fate and Destiny. I believe we seal and make our own, respectively." Sinister replies, rising then. "I'll have the limo brought around again. I however, need to allow my wings what they've been craving and go for a long, high flight. Maybe fresh answers will provide themselves -- and maybe he should have a word with Uriel himself, because I didn't exactly steal that feather. He gave it freely."

There is a headshake as he rises and with a 'shrrrip' sound, the wings once again manifest and unfurl, beating once, twice, lightly before they consent to being folded.

"Welcome back to the United States, Nick. And wish me luck explaining -that- one to Lucifer. Ah me."

After which, the skies await.