Pulse, Part One

by Tangerine

Shaking and crying as she crouched in a dark corner, clutching her stomach in weak protection of her unborn baby, Betsy fought to scream for help but found no words to fill her parched mouth. It was okay if she died, she was ready for it, but not her baby. Her baby hadn't even had a chance to live.

"Please, I've done nothing to hurt you," she muttered through a broken jaw, aware of the blood seeping from a deep wound in her side. "If you want me dead, you can have me, but give me another month, another week. Let this baby live."

But he kept after her, slashing and clawing, ripping her apart, until, with blood spewing and her heartbeat waning, she fell for the last time, lying with eyes half open as death struck down two, and they were dead . . .

Elisabeth Braddock didn't cry out as she woke from the horrid nightmare but stared blankly at the dark ceiling for hours until she found the strength to move. She dreamt like this every night, and she had for months, ever since the day Warren had died.

The villains changed faces, for tonight it had been Sabretooth, yesterday it had been Sinister, and she feared who tomorrow might bring, but the plot itself never changed. She, and the child, died in every one.

Her child, the flesh of her flesh, the fruit of her loins, was still an unknown to her. Every once in awhile, she'd catch its thoughts, if that's what they could be called, but the rest of the time, it was blank save for the knowledge something was there. It was like being watched without knowing where the eye lay. She didn't care for the feeling.

Pushing slowly to a sitting position, she wiped the tears from her face with her palms then ran her hands over the huge bulge from her stomach. It had been a long seven months, torturous at times and rarely pleasant, but it had been a labour of love. In two months from this very day, her child would be born in this world.

She stood slowly then just as carefully put on her robe and tied the belt around her swollen waist, and almost painfully, she strode over to the large window, which was open to the dark night, illuminating the room with a soft glow from the lights below.

She had been in New York only two days, but she had yet to return home. She was almost afraid of Westchester, of the memories it would bring. She had been so happy there with Warren, for their love had blossomed in that glorious place, and she knew it would hurt her soul to be reminded of it, but she so hated being alone.

Once again, the nagging thought that had followed her from England loomed in her head. She should have stayed with Brian and Meggan, she should have stayed at Braddock Manor and given birth to her baby there, but Brian and Meggan, their love and happiness in particular, sickened her with jealousy. It wasn't fair. Brain always got everything, and she rarely got anything. Her feelings were petty, but Brain had thought them reasonable and decided it would be better if she went were she was comfortable.

Meggan was pregnant too it seemed, which delighted her brother and his fianceé to no end. They were already married in all senses of the word, save for legally, but that rarely mattered when people were in love. Another baby, so soon after the big mistake she had made. She had laughed at first when she heard it, but Brian and Meggan deserved this happiness. She thought, sometimes, she did not.

Of course, this had yet to make her happy.

The pregnancy hadn't been easy. In truth, it had been one, long period of time filled with upset, pain and uneasiness. She had almost lost the baby in the third month and again a week later, and the morning sickness had been so bad she had been hospitalised twice. The past four months had been strangely calm, though the pain was still there, dull and aching. It wasn't so much physical anymore as it was mental, and she had night visions of her baby's death and suffered because of it.

The toll on her frame was tremendous. Doctor Woodrow had joked about the size of the child, saying it'd be a natural in American football, but Betsy had found little humour in it all. At seven months, she looked as though she might deliver any moment, and the strain on her lower back could be excruciating at points. Her feet were in a constant state of swelling, and she hadn't slept through the night in months.

But she wouldn't trade the experience for anything else in the world. This child was hers, was Warren's, and for that reason alone, she would fight to her dying breath if she had to in order to preserve this baby's life. She loved it to the point it hurt, and she would never hate it or resent it. It was the only thing that gave her hope anymore.

It was the only thing that could save her soul.

Turning from the window, she stared at the room, sighing deeply then picked up a maternity dress. She hated all the pregnancy clothes, hated having to be so unfashionable, but it was one of the few things that fit anymore. She looked at though she was wearing a very shapeless bag and that she might burst from it at any moment.

She brushed her hair quickly, tying it away from her face and threw on a thin layer of makeup to hide the dark bags under her purple eyes. She had never thought herself to be exceptionally beautiful, certainly not after the Kwannon incident which resulted in her being birthed in a stranger's body, but now, now she saw something that hadn't been in her eyes for a very long time. It was hidden at times behind the despair, and more often still it was clouded by the tears, but life burned in the dark purple, the undeniable joy of life.

It was hard to live as this, bouncing violently between severe bouts of glorious love for life and utter despair for the same thing. Even when she found her heart free from the pain and sadness her life had become synonymous with, she still remembered Warren and his death.

He had been released; she had been condemned.

She remembered his body and how it looked after his death. She had sat with him for hours, crying without knowing, singing without hearing, breathing without living, until Brian had found her and tore her away from him. He had been so beautiful then, so free and gorgeous. Why couldn't he have been like that in life? She loved him so much, but not even that had freed him from the hate and darkness that dwelled deep in his soul. She was glad to have seen him as he truly was.

Betsy slipped on her shoes, wincing as she tried to forced her bloated feet into the tight shoe. She remembered when wearing high-heels had been child-play and now loafers equalled hell to her. The endless ironies of life, she supposed, though found no humour in the realisation. Life wasn't funny, she'd noticed.

Betsy sat by the phone and slowly picked up the receiver, listening a moment for the dial tone then tapping in the numbers. It rang shrilly in her ear, crying to be picked up like a newborn baby would.

"Hello?"

She paused, suddenly unsure if this person had been the right one to call, but she needed someone to understand, she needed something to talk to that would pass no judgement and knew her pain. "Charlotte Jones?"

There was another hesitation, this time on Charlotte's part, then a "Betsy?"

Betsy wrapped the cord around her finger, wondering what had given it away. Probably the accent, she decided, the accent always gave her away. "Yes."

"It's nice to hear from you, I mean that," Charlotte added gently. "How have you been, Betsy? Are you okay?"

"I am surviving," Betsy confessed, "coping with his death as best I can, but sometimes it seems like even that isn't enough to save me." Betsy's fingers danced upon her belly, sweetly caressing the child within. "Charlotte, if you're not busy, do you suppose we could meet for tea?"

"I'm not busy," Charlotte replied, "and I'd love to meet with you. Where?"

"I saw a quaint little tea shop on the drive from the airport, the English Rose, I think it was called," she murmured, wondering why she had been compelled to do this. She barely knew Charlotte, yet now, in her time of need, she was the only Betsy would ever dream of calling. She would never understand why she did the things she did.

"A couple women from work and I have been in there. It's nice, quiet and private. I'll see you around one?"

"Yes, one would be good." They exchanged their goodbyes and Betsy hung up the phone, relieved somewhat that Charlotte had consented to meeting her. It wasn't like her to be so shy and removed, but something had changed in her when Warren died, something she wasn't sure could ever be reborn.

Locking her door, she walked slowly down the hall, clutching her purse tightly without realising it. She had nothing to fear from these so-called ruffian New Yorkers, but it was more habit than anything else. She had the tendency to cling to things.

The weather was warm, especially for late June, and it made her uncomfortable. She detested the warmth, especially the affect it had on her skin and hair. If it remained this sweltering and hot, she was sure her pregnancy would only become more unbearable.

She wished she could purge these negative thoughts from her mind, but try as she might, they remained where they were. She tried to replace them with happier memories, but it rarely helped. The sadness and despair always returned, worse than before.

Even when she had lost her body to Kwannon and found herself in this new Asian one, she had never felt despaired. Regretful, certainly, sad, maybe, definitely out of place and uncomfortable, but never depressed about it. It had happened, and there was nothing she could do to make it otherwise, but now she couldn't shake her depression. She pondered medication, thinking maybe it would do something to lighten her spirits, but she never found the time, and there was always an excuse handy to convince herself the despair would leave eventually.

She caught the eyes of a woman, clearly reading the deeply-hidden pangs of envy from the stranger's mind. Betsy was amazed how women who could not have children reacted to her, consciously or not. The feelings were never violent, never spiteful, but more longing and sad that a baby had been denied to them. She had never noticed that before.

She was realising a lot of things she had never seen, and it always surprised her, the things people felt when they saw her. Other parents thought sweetly of their children, while couples trying to conceive felt their desires grow stronger. She felt the awe of children when they saw her, and she always picked up unspoken comments from various people regarding her size when they asked how many months along she was or pity about the fact she was unwed and pregnant. She could never bring herself to explain what had happened to the father, thinking, in some part, they didn't deserve to know, and feeling also that if she didn't admit it, it couldn't possibly hurt as much. Feeling what they felt, the immense pity that she didn't want, was only a small part of that.

Betsy hailed a cab with only the slightest help from her telepathic powers and eased herself into the car, pulling the strap over her shoulder to buckle herself safely in. Sitting back against the comfortable seat, she caught the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"How far along are you?" The driver asked in a faint Yorkshire accent. It wasn't enough to affect his speech, but she caught it nonetheless, thinking fondly of England and all she had left behind.

"A bit beyond seven months," Betsy replied, glancing out the window at the people as they whirred by in their busy little lives. If they knew she was a creature they feared, she wondered what they would do.

The driver smiled, drumming his fingers across the steering wheel. "I have a baby," he confessed with a grin of pride, "a daughter, only two months old. She's a precious little thing with the biggest blue eyes you'd ever seen."

Betsy nodded gently, smiling slightly as the overzealous memories of his daughter poured from his mind into hers. She was quite a doll, Betsy saw, definitely one of the cutest babies she had ever 'viewed'. She could see why he would be proud.

"I was terrified when my wife said she was pregnant, horrified I wouldn't be a good father or that Claire, that's my daughter, would be embarrassed of me because I wasn't rich and drove a cab for a living. My wife insisted that I was her father and had given her life would be enough, and the moment she was born, I knew I needn't have worried. Her heart could never hate a soul, it is too pure for that."

"I think sometimes my baby might hate me too," Betsy confessed to this man, glad to be able to talk to somebody without ever having to see him again. Sometimes, strangers were better than friends. "I will not be bringing it into the world I want for it."

"You're his mother, he'll understand," the driver grinned, "or she. Where in England are you from, ma'am? I noticed your accent, and I thought you might be from Manchester, but the pitch is a little off."

"A tiny manor in the countryside, a few kilometres from Manchester, actually. I attended finishing school with several girls from Manchester and picked up the accent then."

"My wife's from that area. We thought we might have a chance at a better life in America, perhaps escape the poverty we were in, but even now, sometimes I doubt it made that much of a difference. My wife has grandparents in Canada, so we'll head there when we have the money. They've offered their house, but we've no funds to get there. I want my daughter to grow up with a house and a strong family, something I and my wife never had."

"She's lucky to have a family to support her," Betsy commented, realising her child too would have a family, but not the traditional one. The X-Men would have to make up for the gape Warren has left in both their lives.

"I'm sure the baby's father and yourself will make your child just as lucky."

Betsy felt the sadness stab her heart like a knife, plunging deep through her muscle into her soul. She should just lie to him, make it seem like the father was of no concern, but whenever she did that, she felt as though she was disgracing Warren's memory. "The father knew he was a lucky man to the day he died."

The cabbie looked back, a look of remorse on his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think. I apologise, ma'am, and offer my respects to his memory."

"How could you have known? It's not your fault." Betsy discarded his apology easily, placing her hands crossed upon her stomach, feeling the baby swim inside her. "His memory will not die, and my baby will know him through me."

"She's lucky to have you, then, to let her know that. I never knew my father, and I regret sometimes my mother never found the time to tell me about him." The cabbie looked to the road in mild surprise. "What do you know? Here we are, ma'am."

"How much do I owe you?"

The cab driver shook his head. "Nothing, ma'am, you've been a pleasure to talk to."

"Do you take cheques?"

"Honestly, ma'am, it's not necessary." Betsy raised her eyebrows in question, urging him to answer her query. "From you, ma'am, yes."

Betsy scribbled her pen across the paper, attempting to be as neat as she possibly could then tore it from the book. "What's your name?"

"Calvet Archer."

Betsy nodded, filling in the last of the spaces and handed it to the man, placing the items back into her purse. The man choked slightly, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and he turned to her, ready to protest her gift.

"Ma'am," he began but she shook her head.

"Call me Betsy, please," she insisted. "I have more money than I care to have, mostly from the father, so let me do this for you. With this money, you can move to Canada and get a life for your daughter, and if you need a job, there are several companies I have part ownership of. Just call me, and I'll arrange something."

"But this is too much even for me to accept," he protested mildly, pushing the cheque weakly back towards her. "It would be wrong. I haven't earned it."

"Nor have I earned what I've had. I was left this in a will, all of a worldwide Enterprise and several smaller companies, and though my brother has control of most of it, I have my share, and I haven't any idea of what to do with it. Take it, please, Warren would have wanted to help you, and so do I."

Finally, the man nodded mutely, watching her silently as she got out of the car and began to walk towards the tea shop door. Turning back to view the road, he pushed his foot on the accelerator and sped off, catching a look of the purple-haired woman as she watched him going, smiling sweetly like an Angel.

[next part]

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