“That don’t explain why Ace don’t remember me, ” Wolverine commented. “I knew her before she got mixed up in this whole spandex lifestyle.”
“I think it does, Logan,” Jean replied. “Carol’s had more contact with you during your time with the X-Men than while you were both working military intelligence; in some way, she associates you more with super hero activity. Therefore, when her memories of having been involved in that ‘lifestyle,’ as you put it, were removed, her memories of you were likewise deleted.”
Wolverine grunted. “When did you become a psychologist, Jean-nie?”
“You go bouncing around inside people’s heads as long as I have, friend, and you don’t need a shingle hanging on the wall.” Jean smiled and wagged a disapproving finger at him. “And that’s Dr. Jean Grey to you. ”
Cyclops frowned, and rubbed his jaw with a gloved hand. “All right, so Carol’s powers aren’t available to us, and Jean’s probably right about the rest of the world being unaware of our existence. But, that doesn’t mean we just throw in the towel, go back to the citadel, and let the world go hang. If there are superpowered individuals who are opposed to Doom, it’s vital that we find them and convince them to join us.”
“An’ where we gon’ find us some o’ dese ‘individuals’?” Gambit asked.
Cyclops tilted his head to one side and stared at Gambit for a moment like he was some kind of circus oddity. “Where anyone else would go when they’re looking for super heroes, Remy,” he replied slowly.
“New York City.”
It was the kind of day that made you glad to be alive.
Outside, the sun shone brightly, a cool breeze from the east drifted across lower Manhattan, and, on the balcony, birds could be heard chirping happily as they ate a breakfast of seeds and bread crumbs from a Roadrunner-shaped feeder.
Lying in bed in the apartment she shared with Warren Worthington III, Betsy Braddock grinned broadly as she listened to the sounds of the city as it geared up to meet the new day.
Her day. The day she took her first big step toward immortality— starting with that night’s performance at the Starlight Room. Warren had made all the necessary arrangements to convince the Minister of Entertainment that he should check out Betsy’s act—give her some serious consideration for a possible spot in the Emperor’s anniversary celebration.
The rest was going to be up to her.
She stretched, arms extended above her head, back arched, then turned to gaze at the man beside her. Warren was sleeping soundly, arms folded against his chest, head tucked under one of his magnificent white wings, in a manner reminiscent of the way in which birds doze. Betsy propped her head up with one hand and silently watched him for a while, wishing that this moment could last forever. Tenderly, she reached out to stroke one of the primary feathers of the wing that lay closest to her. Warren shifted slightly, his wing flapping gently in reaction to her touch; he mumbled something incoherent in his sleep.
It sounded like “Love you.” She was more than happy to settle for the rough translation.
Trying not to disturb him, Betsy quietly stepped from the bed and slipped on a black satin robe. Then, running her hands through her hair to clear her vision of the disheveled lavender locks that had cascaded over her face—how she hated “bed hair”!—she stepped lightly toward the drawn curtains. She pulled them aside to reveal a spectacular view of New York Harbor. The sky was a brilliant blue canvas, stretched out to the horizon without a trace of clouds. To the east, the Brooklyn shipyards were already bustling with activity, as tugboats led massive tankers to and from the docks; to the west, New Jersey was also off to an early start, its highways already beginning to clog with traffic bound for the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels, and, through them, into Manhattan.
And out on the water, sunlight glinted off the polished metal of the Statue of von Doom. The four-hundred-foot-tall armored figure stood proudly at the entrance to the harbor, like a modern-day Colossus of Rhodes, its right hand holding a fifty-foot-long Latverian broadsword as though challenging God Himself to a fight. It was an impressive sight, especially when seen from the ocean, and it had been designed at the Emperor’s request by a gifted, world-renowned sculptor named Piotr Nikolievitch to replace the far less imposing French-created statue that had stood there for over one hundred years. Betsy had had the pleasure of meeting the handsome, though somewhat shy, Russian artist at one of Warren’s bashes a year ago.
“Is this heaven?” Warren mumbled from under his wing.
“Close enough,” Betsy said, turning to face him. “Why?”
“Well, I think you tried your very best to kill me last night,” he replied, “so I was expecting to wake up and find myself standing in front of the Pearly Gates.”
“Well, you’ve already got the wings,” Betsy said, “but that wasn't any sort of murder I was attempting.” Her smile widened. “That was what we British call ‘unbridled passion.’ Perhaps you Yanks have heard of it?”
Warren stuck his head out from under the feathered appendage; his blond hair looked as though it had been subjected to the full power of a wind tunnel. “Oh, is that what that is?” He shook his head. “And here I’d always heard about how restrained you English ladies are supposed to be.”
Reaching behind her, Betsy told hold of the curtains and drew them closed, plunging the room once more into darkness.
“Darling boy,” she purred seductively, “who ever said I was restrained ... or a lady . . . ?”
It was well after ten o’clock before Mr. Worthington made himself available to his business associates.
Sitting alone on a plush leather couch in the living room, Betsy sipped at a mug of Earl Grey tea while she sorted through a small pile of sheet music that she had spread across the teak wood coffee table before her; from the stereo speakers around her, the soft music of a jazz radio station filled the apartment with the sounds of Miles Davis’s trumpet rendition of the Michael Jackson song “Human Nature.” Clad in one of Warren’s dress shirts, hair tied back in a ponytail, Betsy focused on the matter at hand: looking for just the right pieces to perform that night— ones guaranteed to convince the Minister that she should be included in his roster of acts.
Nothing too up-tempo, she thought, hut nothing too melancholy, either. Something Cole Porter-ish, maybe, or Stephen Sondheim. She picked up one arrangement: “Someone to Watch Over Me.” An appropriate number, perhaps, considering that’s pretty much what the Emperor did—watch over the entire world—but it was a tad too cliched; leave that one to Audra McDonnell or Bernadette Peters.
She nervously chewed on her bottom lip. So many choices, so many sets to consider, so many songs that could express to the Minister exactly how she felt about her world, her life, her love for Warren.
So many opportunities to screw up and bore him if she picked the wrong ones.
Betsy shook her head. “That’s no way to be thinking, you cow,” she muttered. “You’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be better than fine—you’ll be tremendous. ”
She nodded, pleased with that incredibly positive assessment of her talents. This was no time to be dwelling on negative thoughts anyway, she reminded herself. Warren had presented her with the opportunity of a lifetime, and she wasn’t about to just let it slip away by conceding the battle before she had even fought it.
Forget any ideas about screwing up, she told herself. You’re a Braddock, remember—and a Brit. We don’t do “screwing up. ” You will pick the right songs, you will be great, you will impress the hell out of the Minister.
And you will get your name on that talent list.
Betsy smiled broadly. By the time she was finished with her set, she’d have the Minister practically begging her to be part of the gala.
All she needed was a chance.
1
BEFORE SHE knew it, that chance was upon her.
Night descended over Manhattan, and with its arrival a differ_ ent New York City began to come to life. Office workers
and bike
messengers and street vendors and sales clerks streamed out of the city at the stroke of five o’clock, to be replaced by leather-and-lace-clad Goths and trendy club hoppers and hunters and huntresses on the prowl for companionship, and even the occasional transvestite dressed to the nines like Tallulah Bankhead or Bette Davis.
It was also the time when The Beautiful People—the rich, the powerful, the noses-etemally-stuck-high-in-the-air elite—came out to play. And to be entertained.
Located just off Times Square, high atop the fifty-four story Osborn Enterprises office tower on Sixth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street, the Starlight Room was one of the city’s hot spots where The Beautiful People gathered—a place where one went to spend an evening if one wanted to be considered among those “in the know.” On any given night of the week, and especially so on a busy weekend, the spacious restaurant/theater was often jammed to the rafters with celebrities: power-brokers like Donald Trump and Tony Stark often dropped by with their fashion model dates of the month, as did politicians and actors, musicians and playwrights, poets and authors; even the Emperor and Empress von Doom had visited while celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary.
It was also the spot where, for the past two years, three nights a week, critically-acclaimed songstress Elisabeth Braddock had been “knockin’ ’em dead,” to use an old Broadway phrase. Show tunes, torch songs, ballads—if there was a song written in the English language in the past fifty years, odds were more than just good that Betsy knew it by heart, and could find a way to perform it as no one else had ever done before. It had often been mentioned in the sterling reviews the New York critics had lavished upon her that her show wasn’t simply entertainment—it was an emotional experience.
And tonight, she needed to focus those emotions and yank hard on the heart-strings of one very special audience member.
Standing in the center of her private dressing room—not as small as a closet, but a far cry from the almost Grand Canyon-esque dimensions of Warren’s apartment—Betsy was in the midst of her warm-ups, fine-tuning her voice before the show, working her way up and down the musical scale as she watched herself in the large makeup mirror over her dressing table. That afternoon’s rehearsals had gone surprisingly well, considering she had sprung a few numbers on the band that they’d never performed, and, even better, her dry cleaner had delivered her “good luck” dress—a red satin, fioor-length, off-the-shoulder gown with a thigh-high slit along the right leg. The plunging neckline was provocative without being tasteless, and, in a room that was intentionally dimly lit to create “atmosphere,” the fire engine-hued material tended to draw the eye far more than the curve of bosom it revealed. What made it special was that she had first worn it last year, when Warren suggested they move in together. And though the style might be a bit slightly behind this year’s fashions, it still seemed to bring her a measure of good luck whenever she wore it in her performances.
And considering the odds at stake tonight, she needed all the help she could get.
A knock on the door caught her attention.
“Coooommmme iiiinnnn, ” she sang, maintaining her concentration.
The door opened, and Paul Miller poked his head into the room. In his late thirties, his shoulder-length brown hair neatly tied back in a ponytail, Paul was the bespectacled band leader of, and pianist for, The Starlight Orchestra—which, truth be told, was not really an orchestra, since it only consisted of ten members. On the other hand, their original name, the Paul Miller Jazz Group, never really had the zing Paul had wanted when they’d been made the house band five years ago, so he had settled on something more upscale and more in line with the elegant setting in which they played.
Paul’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Betsy. In the mirror, she could tell by his gaze that he definitely liked the way the gown hugged her like a second skin.
“Hey, kid,” he said, nodding appreciatively, “you look fantastic! ”
“Thaaannkk yoooouu, ” Betsy replied.
Paul stared at her for a moment more, then shook his head, apparently to focus on other matters. “Oh. Just wanted to stop by and let you know the house is packed tonight. Word is the Minister of Entertainment himself’s supposed to be putting in an appearance.” He smiled. “Try not to embarrass me, okay?”
Betsy stopped singing, and smiled at Paul’s reflection in the mirror. “Oh, get out,” she said playfully.
Paul laughed. “I’ll see you inside. Break a leg, kid!” And with a small wave of his hand, he closed the door.
The Starlight Room was even busier than usual, since word of the Minister’s visit had quickly spread through the ranks of the glitteratti— everyone wanted to meet him, to touch the hem of his garment, to suck up to him in the worst way possible.
It had taken an appearance by the Minister’s personal—and well-armed—guard to dissuade them of that idea.
Now, sitting in a comer of the room—one drenched in shadow so that people would stop staring at them—Warren glanced across the table at his guest, who had moved as far back as possible from the small lamp that shone between them. The Minister of Entertainment was not a tall man, but he carried himself with the arrogance of someone the size of a mountain—self-importance always has tended to bring out the worst traits in insecure people. He was high enough in the government to be considered a mover-and-shaker, yet far enough removed from the Emperor to be recognized for the embarrassment that he was.
“Your girlfriend better be as good as you say she is, Worthington,” the Minister warned. “I’m not about to hire some karaoke singer to stand in front of a jukebox and warble ‘My Heart Will Go On’ to the Emperor on such a special occasion as his anniversary.” He chuckled without mirth. “Although I wouldn’t mind doing that to Vic for his next birthday . ..”
“Don’t worry,” Warren said. “Betsy’s everything I’ve promised, and more. Besides, she was good enough for the Royal Couple when they visited here a few years ago.”
The Minister grunted. “That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, friend. Vic’s musical tastes tend to swing somewhere between ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ and the high-pitched keening of people being ground under his boot heel. And as for Ororo . . .” He shook his head in disbelief; “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: The Partridge Family does not make for good, get-down-on-the-ground-like-a-hound party music at an Imperial function.” He shrugged. “Hey, but what do I know? I’m just the freakin’ Minister of Entertainment!”
Moving out of the light so his face was concealed by shadow, Warren rolled his eyes and groaned softly. This could turn out to be an extremely long night. . .
The noisy buzz of chatter in the room died down as Martin Perkins, the restaurant’s manager and emcee, stepped onto the stage. He was greeted with polite applause. In his mid-fifties, his short, dark hair peppered with gray, he cut a dashing figure in a tuxedo as he smiled at the audience, then lightly tapped on the microphone at the front of the stage; thankfully, there was no feedback from the speaker system.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the staff and management of the Starlight Room are proud to present, now in her second year of exclusive engagements, that stylish chanteuse, that critically-acclaimed British songstress: Miss Elisabeth BRADDOCK!”
A spotlight shone on Betsy as she stepped out from backstage, to be greeted by a hearty round of applause. Smiling brightly, she walked over to Perkins, shook his hand, then moved to the microphone.
“Thank you,” she said to those gathered. “I’d like to start tonight with a new number, called ‘Spring Rain’. It’s an early twentieth century poem by Sara Teasdale that—” she gestured toward Paul, who sat at the piano “—Mr. Paul Miller was gifted enough to set to music.” A smile played at her lips. “It’s a very special song for a very special man in my life.” '
There was a smattering of applause, and even a few shouts of approval directed toward Warren. Betsy chuckled as he stood up, polit
ely bowed to the room, then sat down.
When the applause and laughter had died down, Betsy glanced over her shoulder and nodded to Paul. His fingers danced over the keys as he began the musical introduction.
Betsy took a deep breath. Then, eyes closed, fingertips lightly resting on the microphone, she began to sing:
I thought I had forgotten But it all came back again To-night with the first spring thunder In a rush of rain
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and, a glowing smile lighting her face, could almost picture the scene she was describing, Warren in her arms:
I remember a darkened doorway Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth And lightning scorched the sky
Betsy inclined her head slightly, just enough so she could gaze at Warren, who smiled back; his chiseled, azure features were fairly glowing with pride. She felt her pulse race with exhilaration, and she turned to sing directly to him:
With the wild spring rain and thunder My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night Than your lips could ever say. . .
Three minutes later, the applause that greeted the end of the song was more than appreciated, but it was Warren’s warm, beatific smile that meant the world to her.
“Thank you,” Betsy said softly to her audience. “Thank you so much.”
She glanced toward Warren, and saw him huddled forward across the table, speaking in hushed tones with the Minister. Warren was smiling and nodding her head. Betsy gasped softly, feeling as though her heart was about to explode. Then, drawing a deep breath, she slowly released it as she stepped back from the microphone, and turned to Paul. He smiled and winked at her.
“Go get ’em, tiger-lady,” he said quietly, so that only she could hear
him.
Betsy smiled and nodded, and the band began playing the next number. As she turned back to the audience, she couldn’t help but glance toward the shadowy outline of the Minister. A wicked smile played at her lips.
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