Owner	Pose
Psylocke	Braddock Castle, located in Caernarvon is a literal castle -- inheriting much of its influence from Europe. While Betsy spent some time here when she was little, she hasn't been in the place in years, some of that owing to the fact that it was willed solely to her brother Brian, but mostly just because in this day and age, a castle is more of a money sink and status symbol than anywhere practical to live. No one ever really talks about how drafty such places are. The weather is cold and blustery and almost English in its mood. Dressed in heels and a cashmere sweater, Betsy's walking with the castle's caretaker, an older man carrying a clipboard and pencil. Clearly old school. The gardens are perfectly manicured and maintained -- large open green spaces, bordered by hedges and flowering gardens. They're heading towards the granite statue of Major Edward 'Bulldog' Braddock, which, to be fair, is looking a little worse for wear after nearly three centuries. "...approval to undergo restoration. We haven't heard from Lord Braddock in a while, you know," the caretaker's explaining. Betsy is mostly frowning at the statue. "Lady Braddock?" "Yes, yes. Undertake the restoration. But leave that chip on his right finger alone." A flash of a smile, something secretive, passes across Betsy's features. "We don't want him /too/ new looking. Age is the point, no?" "As you wish, Lady Braddock."
Sinister	And most castles these days are also too much of a work in progress to really have the overhaul that they need to bring them up to modern standards of insulation and geo-efficiency. One has to have been occupying it and being paid exorbitant fees in royalties, quite literally, to be able to bring them into the twenty first century. Who really has time for that these days? The caretaker probably doesn't sense anything out of the ordinary, being a fellow of ordinary stature, as it were. But it's thoroughly possible that Betsy does; just a tickle in the back of the mind that says 'there are eyes on me' which although in the past may have been a worrisome thing, in this instance has the flavour of the strut upon the catwalk and the flash of paparazzi. There's only a souz-sans of malice that might be felt. Good job that, right? Always good when strange eyes you can't see that might be looking at you, aren't intending terrible harm. However you want to slice the observations made of a past history of a statue that earned its knocks legitimately at the hands of a girl in a boys world, the woman that girl became might want to look up. The eyes are definitely up. The roof most likely. Parapets are good for being exactly what they were designed to be once upon a nevermind; vantage points for people with rifles, cross-bows or cameras. Or curiosity.
Psylocke	The caretaker's busy making notes on his clipboard, wholly oblivious to anything that might be going on. Certainly oblivious to the way Betsy's fingers curl, the way her senses flare outwards as her head lifts. "I think I wish to walk the grounds for a time and think, Jonathan." "Of course, Lady Braddock. Take your time." The mark of a well-trained servant, an effortless patience despite the fact that it's taken months for the caretaker to get a hold of the woman for any time at all. Jonathan bobs his head, and walks towards the castle's entrance, while Betsy remains where she is, watchful despite the distant way she seems to look at nothing. Jonathan has no way of knowing that there's a psychic protection over him as he departs. Despite what she feels she's overly protective of those she considers hers, in whatever capacity. Only when Jonathan's safely returned into the drafty halls of Castle Braddock does she murmur, "And what do we have here?" It is effortless for her to reach out and seek the source of attention. To narrow it down. To look precisely in that location. "Shall we have a pleasant conversation?"
Sinister	It is an odd feeling though, the narrowing down of the observant eye -- she can feel it and there's a certain hint in it of amusement. General location? Check. Seeing it though? Even being able to latch onto its mind with any accuracy? She might as well be attempting to catch an invisible greased eel in a vat full of lard. Until it's suddenly there, like whatever protection IT had is peeled back. One moment there was nobody sitting keen as you please with legs dangling over the front ballistrade and then there they are, giving a jaunty salute as legs dangle. Dressed in black. Black hair, red glowing eyes. A Sinister feel. But... And then they're vanished from above with a leap from the top, only to walk up beside her and the statue, looking it over with hands in the pockets of the black suit. Lucifer? The devil has a very distinctive profile, but that's not right either. Something in the way he holds himself and then when he looks at her, the ruby diamond imbedded in the forehead is a dead giveaway, alongside those flame-coloured eyes. But that's the devil's smirk, sure enough. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I =do= love to see how far I can push something before it snaps. Good evening, miss Braddock." The flourish of a bow is as courtley as it could be.
Psylocke	One thing that Betsy Braddock has in spades, without thought, is a kind of effortless poise. It has served her well under many different situations over the years. Now, in this moment -- as figure appears close by and walks up to join her -- it serves to hide most of her reaction. Just the slight part of lips to betray her startlement. Betsy recognizes those things in the figure. The jaunty demeanor and penchant for black clothes. The flame-shaded eyes and smirk. She has no immediate explanation for it, but the recognition is all she needs for now. "Self-control is a skill one learns to master," the British woman says, with an undisguised regard of curiosity. "And you have the advantage of me." A smile: "And my curiosity." Because yes, that's immediately apparent, malice or no.
Sinister	"Do I now? I should press that," the figure smiles, the devil's own smile and chuckles. The hands return to pockets after a flourish of pantomime that says 'a kiss was bestowed upon a hand I did not possess'. "There was some inner debate along the way, about being all post-modern celebrity couple, but none of the choices sounded remotely good. So, for the sake of a name, you can call me Seven, if you like." He turns eyes onto the statue, appreciating the lines of it with an oddly critical eye. "Hmm. Doesn't look right without the traffic cone on his head, but ...." he shrugs and looks back to her. "You might as well ask. Others have, but they've been varying shades of polite about it. I won't lie."
Psylocke	"You could," Betsy says with an answering smile. A smile that, truthfully, contains a shade of anticipation: and yes, still that curiosity that deepens at that courtly affectation. She always was partial to the old courtesies of aristocracy. Question is: is it an inherited trait, a deliberate affectation aimed at her, or otherwise? "Seven," she rolls the name around her mouth, thoughtful. Dutifully, she turns her gaze towards the statue, amusement coloring her voice. "It wasn't a traffic cone, but when we were little, I made Brian carry me on his shoulders so I could climb up to put a wreath of flowers on his head. When I was climbing back down, I slipped and accidentally knocked one of his fingers off." The evidence is still there; the little finger missing, the stone underneath a little less time-worn than the rest around it. "There is something inherently satisfying knowing parts of your presence will linger on after you're gone, don't you think?" With that, Betsy turns her gaze back towards Seven, studying him with an open interest. His promise not to lie gets a twitch of brow. "You have the distinct look of Lucifer Morningstar's smile, and Nathaniel Essex's mannerisms. Are you born of them?" She chooses her words deliberately. There are plenty of ways to be born, especially when one of them is a literal angel and the other a genius scientist.
Sinister	"Born? No. Created? Yes. In a manner of speaking at any rate," that question answered, the explanation of the damaged statue earns itself a soft, voiceless laugh. "Aah, the comfort of object permanence. The fourth dimension has a knack of being comforting, if widely lacking in comprehension. I sometimes think we go back to the places that mattered to us over the course of history, just to see if they're still there. One day, I'm half expecting a mountain to be missing." Seven grins at the stone face of the major general, then turns his back on him and gives the undivided attention to the lady of the house. "You know how sometimes you think something is a good idea at the time and it turns out to have several ways it could go? Well, I'm what happens if history zigged instead of zagging."
Psylocke	The answer confirms the suspicions Betsy already had. And, of course, brings up more. "How long have you... existed?" "Oh, I always believe every idea I have is exceptionally amazing." Betsy laughs, and the sound is warm and carefree. She seems surprisingly relaxed -- for a moment, anyway. When Seven continues, she breathes out a breath. "Ah. Nathaniel's experiment with future possibilities. So -- in another life, you were them? Or their descendant?" A puff of breath. "You got the most dangerous parts of both of them. His mannerisms. His charisma. His smile. His fashion sense." She doesn't say which is which: it's a casual observation. "So, Seven. You have Nathaniel's curiosity about the world, I can tell. Are you planning to fix it? Study it? Destroy it? None of the above?"
Sinister	"Kind of. Yes. Oh, I -do- like you, you can add two and two together and come up with a whole apple." A whole apple? Pulled from his pocket, that's exactly what's there, rich and green, the colour of envy itself and he bites into it with a crunch, apparently exceptionally satisfied with it. Between crunches, he continues to converse. "Nathaniel Essex experimented with a lot of things in his existence. One of them was extrapolating the DNA of an archangel for personal use. Call it a flip of the coin if you like, but... fifty fifty there's success or ultimate catastrophe on a personal level because Them up There took offence. It's very hard to be convincingly villainous when you're reduced to a whisp of thought that's rapidly panicking, because everything that you were was consumed with holy flame in a matter of a moment. Luckily for him, things have a knack of working out, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the surprising." He looks at her and the red of the eyes flashes just a little brighter around the grin of a full mouth of apple. "Not sure if you're a hundred percent on which it was in this case, hmm? Six of one, half a dozen of the other and we're not sharing which it is of which." Touche? Perhaps. "Currently, I'd have to say six of one, half a dozen of the other all adds up to thirteen, a baker's dozen and that's only because you need one left over in case someone drops a loaf in the gutter." And that somehow sounded immensely saucy in a naughty kind of way, despite the innocence of the words. "So. All of the above? Yes, sounds about right. I think what you could currently say with a measure of accuracy, is that I'm /useful/. Uuugh, I hate that word."
Psylocke	There's great complexity in the way Betsy expresses herself with Seven. He indicated his intent not to lie, and so she affords him the same courtesy. And yet simultaneously, she's wholly conscious of just how dangerous he could be -- is -- if even a fraction of her guesses about him are correct. In the course of things, the production of an apple is little, but it's a touchstone to what else he might be capable of. Still, Betsy at her default -- relaxed and warm -- is relatively open of expression. There's a visible wariness at the mention of /Them/: clearly she has no wish to meet any of Lucifer's relatives. And yet she meets Seven's gaze unfailingly when he looks at her. "I'm glad you chose not to call yourself half a dozen. That's too awkward a mouthful." Little doubt, in this moment, Seven is a product of his creators. No doubt he inherits the charisma of both of his proginators and it's wielded to devastating effect. It's unexpected, and it catches Betsy off guard with a brief parting of her lips before she huffs a laugh and turns her gaze toward the statue to give herself a second's reprieve from his gaze. "Some do like to be useful. But you're right, it's an awful word. I like the word /need/ better. You're needed." A sigh exhales through her, her hesitation apparent. "I have a problem, Seven. Maybe you can help?" she tilts her head to look towards him again, sidelong this time. "The thing is, we know something's coming to destroy us. That it will happen if we take no action. The question that weighs on my mind, given the timing of your appearance: are you a help? Or a hindrance?" There's no threat in the words; not in tone, anyway. Only in the way the question is posed like a riddle to be answered.
Sinister	Seven smiles at her with the full weight of everything that went into his creation. It's a devastating thing to level on anyone, really. Wholely unfair in many schemes. The apple finished, he holds up a finger to stay further inquiry, then clears his throat and walks over to an empty patch of manicured lawn, which is precisely in the middle of flowerbeds and hedgerows and all kinds of ordered beauty. He crouches there, turning the apple core in his grasp, before digging a small hole in the turf and burying the core with a pat of the disrupted soil. He stands, turning his back on it, dusts palms off and the devastating smile goes wry as Sinister's as hands return to his pockets and he saunters back toward her. Behind, where the lawn was disturbed and upset at the fact, a seedling erupts and goes about the business of growing up to a full sized apple tree at a rate of knots, unfurling branches, becoming gnarly in places and even sprouting a few 'climbers knots' on the way. By the time he's closed the distance again, the tree is as old as if it had been planted two hundred years ago, its roots spreading through the grass here and there, like subtle reminders of the fact nature always has other ideas. "Was that an answer? Probably not. But also, perhaps it was. I am a mind reader, but I don't put that on my resume." He is quite close, closer than Sin or Lucifer ever really get as he looks down on her with the wry smile bleeding into full on once again. "Which do you want me to be?"
Psylocke	When Betsy first started receiving these visions, she treated them like the ones that had happened before. Like a vague allegory, a warning to be minded, a thing to keep in the back of the mind until the moment in which it would become apparent what the prophetic dream was trying to tell her. But they persisted. Day after day. Getting worse, more graphic and specific until they haunted even her waking hours. That was when she left, seeking help, tracking down the world's foremost experts on prophecy and comprehension of fate in the most remote and sometimes dangerous areas of the world. Every day haunted by those visions. It was a background, a molding that lead after two years to an absolute conviction: that the threat needed to be stopped, whatever the cost. Even if that meant sacrificing herself. Those she cared about. Her own happiness, her own wants, her own desires. None of it mattered in the face of the dread and despair that pounded through her mind, a warning of what the world would soon face. There's, really, only one answer to that. "I need you." It's said with genuine conviction. Betsy Braddock will use any tool at her disposal. No matter how dangerous. She extends a hand out to him, her violet gaze even. It's not that she's immune to that smile, or his charms; quite the opposite. But it's a focus that borders on obsession, apparent in the determination in her expression.
Sinister	Seven's gaze doesn't drop, but the extension of hand makes the grin subside to normal levels as opposed to rival-the-sun wattage. The hand is shaken, firmly at that and with another voiceless laugh. "Now I'm not sure if I prefer -that- word either. Needful things..." there's a cluck of the tongue and a soft little sigh in the wake of it, akin to mock resignation. This isn't the eleventh hour, but who's counting? "By the by, just to put some reassurance between your ears... /this/ is the prime reality. It took me quite a while to find it. And the nosferatu-wannabe did have a good idea. Luckily, the Sorceror supreme added a little extra weight to that cosmological metronome, which made it easier to determine the base reality. I'm sure that's -exactly- what he had in mind when he killed himself to make it, to boot." Wait. What?! "None of that's going to go right, until the continuum is in harmony though. I've been keeping an eye on that, taking measurements, working out the pulse. Nothing like dimensional Cardiac Arhythmias to add an extra layer of headache to the mix."
Psylocke	The relief that filters through Betsy's gaze could be for the fact that Seven willingly shakes her hand. Or it could just as easily be for the fact that he winds down the charisma back to a normal level. "No?" the smile the woman gives is vibrant. "There's power in need. Perhaps think on it and let me know when you decide on a word you prefer." A beat. "Maybe start with friendship." "I'm not sure it would matter to me whether it was or wasn't the prime reality. I'd have fought just as hard anyway." Her lips part -- but humor drains from Betsy's manner as Seven continues. "The sorcerer supreme killed himself to make a cosmological metronome?" She waits another beat, eyes narrowing. "Do Nathaniel and Lucifer know about you? You," Betsy touches tongue to her lip, briefly. "Remind me a great deal of them. Nathaniel, in your thought. And Lucifer in your mannerisms. I don't mind admitting it's very disconcerting."
Sinister	"Just as hard? Hmm. Firecracker. Me, I find I fight differently, depending on the necessity of the outcome. If I went all over the top about it all the time, I'd have burned myself out on the other ohh.... three? It's three right? No... four... timelines. It gets tiresome, but it also took working out." Seven clicks his tongue, spreads a hand, gives a shrug. All of which rounds out to a more serious expression considering the place they're standing in and the woman he's talking to. "Allies first. Friendship takes a bit more effort. The ones that want to be friends right off the cuff, usually aren't." Friends that is. "But yes. Strange popped his clogs in the making of this one, in actual fact. A version of him did anyway... from what I could work out, it was to make this one count. Literally count and figuratively, too. All the other parallels on the continuum, take their measure from -this- one, which in theory, will make what has to happen easier as well as tricky and snarlworthy." But the comment? That makes him snicker a measure. "It was funny watching the two of them wrap their heads around me, but yes. Ask either of -them- and they won't see it, there's a margin of error for living in denial, when it comes to those two. And it isn't just a river in Egypt."
Psylocke	"One thing I have learned -- though granted I haven't lived as many timelines as you apparently have -- is that people fight in different ways. Even the smallest action can have great impact, if it's the right and often hard choice." Betsy hesitates, a visible reluctance to share warring with a desire to make him understand. She lets the moment go, though a smile flickers across her lips as he expresses caution about friendship. "That truly sounds like a hard lesson that was learned. And a good one." The violet-haired telepath lets out a long, slow breath as Seven shares Strange's fate. "He was a valuable ally, and selfish enough to make such a sacrifice." The woman uses the word 'selfish' is such an odd way; both admiring and recriminating. "So basically, no pressure, but if we fuck it up, it's not just our reality that gets fucked up?" to her credit, Betsy takes that in stride. It's not really worse than what she'd already perceived in the devastation of this world in her visions. "I'd imagine you are... quite a lot to wrap one's head around." Betsy's just saying that as the truth; she doesn't really intend it as a compliment even if it might be taken that way. "I can only infer from your earlier demonstration," she gestures to the tree that, yes, is going to mightily upset the landscapers, "That you want for nothing materialistic. But if you need a place or space away from them now and then, I have places. They, too, can be a lot," yet the way she says it is full of an easy warmth and respect. No doubt that she likes the pair a great deal. "But then I guess you inherited that from them."
Sinister	"Kind of inevitable, really." Seven nods his agreement. "Though I do try to just be irresistibly irrascible." A pause, a sniff "It doesn't always work. Thank you though. Honestly, when it's been too much I just have been going to a very quiet reality where multiple different factions just screwed up monumentally. It's very quiet there." He rocks his elbows out, a kind of nonchalant shrug that doesn't involve shoulderblades at all. "But you're also correct. Knock on effect. And I'm glad someone else came to that conclusion about Strange." Deadpan that reply, he glances to the tree, studying it a few moments with an expression of peculiar peace about him. "Lucifer is brilliant in his own way, but you can't talk to him about complex science without him looking as if you're talking in absolute gibberish. He does try, but..." he shrugs "...and Sinister, well, he's got a lot of baggage, plus a tendancy to operate on a different level to everyone else, on a daily basis. Not a winning combination, no matter what kind of charisma you do or do not have." He exhales through his nose, looks ever so serious a long moment, then smiles a tiny, but meaningful little grin. "So, for what it's worth, Betsy Braddock -- you were right to fear the creation of that device. But it's had quite a number of individuals throwing spanners into the works of it, which makes it considerably... interesting to work with. It's never going to work quite right, until all the timelines in which it exists, which I note are not all that many... are in harmony with this one. Each version made is just a little bit different. Different enough that they're not swinging to the same cosmological time piece. Fix them, you'll get the right answers and probably the best hope of Allies becoming Friends, even if only for a short while. All you've got to do, is work out how to travel between the continuums to where they're housed, allign them up with the master copy in this world and not explode in a paradox. I'm afraid I can only really help so much before /I/ become that paradox.... but I'm doing what I can. There's rules that I'm afraid not even I, with Essex mind and Lucifer's physicality, can /completely/ get around."
Psylocke	"You are very... compelling," Betsy says, choosing her words carefully. It's honest; she's just trying to downplay exactly how much of an impact he's had on her. "Mm. Well, if you don't feel like slipping to another reality, there's plenty of room in the castle. Brian's not been here in years, and I don't get out this way much. It might as well be put to some use." "Is that all?" Betsy's tone is understandably dry. "Travel between cotinuums and fix the machine built on the feather of an angel to predict future events. Simple." Yet whatever deadpan humor she displays vanishes a moment later. Her gaze is on Seven, taking him in. The more she looks at him, the more she sees the parts that are him and not just parts of his progenitors. He said he wouldn't lie, and she means to make the most of that. "Do you think it better destroyed?" The question is asked without weight. For all that Betsy Braddock thinks using the feather is exceptionally dangerous, for all that she trusts Sinister's ingenuity, the balance that tips the telepath one way or another has always been need. They /need/ this to survive... if it doesn't break things in the first place. Who better to be able to see the bigger picture than a being who has stepped across multiple timelines?
Sinister	Seven gives a 'mwah' of the air, a wink with it, though the smile is anything but cock-sure. It's purposefully mild, altogether unassuming and perhaps worse for it. And the answer comes with a slow shaking of the head. "Some things are inevitable. For all the worlds where shrimp do not exist, or everyone has to wear masks because a quirk of fate hundreds of thousands of years ago gave them all the same face... there are events that become anchors in a timeline. They happen everywhere, no matter how they -came- to happen. Lets just say..." he begins, clucks his tongue, stops and considers his words carefully. "...Ahh, here's a good one." Inhaling, he fills his chest with fresh air, looks to the wan sun above in all its wintery glory "...Once upon a time, my father got pissed off enough to do a bloody etch-a-sketch end of the universe as we knew it. Much as many would love to say the gospel truth was written down and thumped for millenia, the fact is, one man and his family were perspicatious enough to load enough animals to start over and enough people to make a village when the flood waters went down again. If he'd never have built that boat, I wonder what the world would look like now? But... I also have to wonder what would have happened if there hadn't been a conveniently placed mountain, to cut through the flood. Without the device... there's no mountain."
Psylocke	It isn't accurate to say that Betsy relaxes. There's too much of Kwannon in her; too watchful and aware to be truly such with a veritable stranger. But her posture does ease, and the mild smile gets an effortless one from Betsy in turn. She still watches him. She's fascinated with the little gestures that remind her of Lucifer and Nathaniel. The little echoes. The nuances of his own. When Seven looks to the pale wintry sun, she instead looks up at the moss-covered face of her distant ancestor, staring stone-like down at them. One could interpret the expression as disapproving; a young Betsy never thought so. The woman's still while Seven tells his story, and when he finishes, she draws a slow breath. "And you're half-expecting the mountain to be missing," she concludes, with a faint smile. "Point taken, then. Through -- straight into the belly of the beast -- has always been my preference. Even if this whole endeavor makes a part of my very human brain extremely uncomfortable." The heavy wooden front door of the Castle creaks open. Though he's standing in the shadows, she -- they both can -- sense the hesitance of the caretaker: unsure whether to interrupt Betsy or not. It's thoughtless, the way the telepath reaches out with wordless reassurance and the man's thoughts ease. "Thank you for your honesty, Seven. I'll pay you in kind." Betsy takes a step, pauses. "The caretaker's wife heard I was in residence and insisted on making a decent meal, if wish to indulge. She does an excellent roast."
Sinister	There is a cluck of the tongue, as she connects the 'missing mountain' comment with his flood analogy perfectly. He smiles, again a bit wry but still present. "Oh, I'm right with you on the discomfort," Seven replies but with another grin. "I... would love to enjoy a little light supper. It's very kind of you to offer..." -- a glance shot to the door where the vassal peeked out, he inclines his head that way and with a little shift and shiver of his shoulders, adds a few little details to the black outfit, to make it look a little more stylish. Gesturing at himself, there's a silent inquiry as to whether the pocket square is too much or whether it could do with a bit more spit and polish. No effort is made to hide his eyes or the ruby in his forehead though, that seems too much like... a lie, perhaps. "And if you genuinely don't mind, I wouldn't mind a nice bed and some creature comforts for a night. My thanks." -- with a bow of the head is a full stop on that thought. He will even make good table company. Fine manners.