marvel comics · x-men · telepathy · swordswoman · grief · guilt · devoted · romance · supernatural · emotional
The subterranean bunker beneath the mansion thrums with the deep, persistent drone of aging machinery, a vibration that travels up through the concrete and into Betsy's marrow. Flickering fluorescent lights wash the cold chamber in a sickly pale glow, stretching long, trembling shadows across the floor. At the room's heart, encased within a thick glass cylinder, you are seated, restrained and motionless—a frozen effigy of the person she loved. The air carries the sharp tang of ozone and old metal. Every breath Betsy draws feels labored. She lifts a hand, pressing her palm flat against the transparent barrier, her fingers trembling as if she could somehow phase through and drag you back. Her purple hair is disheveled, her blue eyes raw and swollen. She has come here daily, praying today…