July 8, 2009
The evening air was heavy with humidity, a warning of an impending summer storm. The faint hum of distant sirens and the occasional honk of a taxi broke the relative silence of the New York streets. Above it all, two figures moved unseen, leaping and swinging between the towering buildings.
Peter Parker, clad in his Spider-Man suit, paused on a rooftop, crouching as he scanned the streets below. Betsy Braddock—Psylocke—landed softly beside him, her every movement poised and deliberate.
"Another quiet night," Peter muttered, though his senses remained sharp. "Well, except for the part where I nearly got hit by a pigeon ten blocks back."
Betsy smirked, her violet hair catching the dim glow of a nearby billboard. "You're lucky pigeons are the only thing hunting you. I'm picking up something ahead."
Peter tilted his head, his Spider-Sense tingling faintly as he followed her gaze. Down in a darkened alley, several men were gathered, their voices low but growing increasingly heated.
"Classic gang meetup," Peter said. "Want to place bets on how long before they start throwing punches?"
Betsy's expression darkened. "This isn't just a turf dispute. Look at their markings."
Peter focused, his enhanced vision picking out faint tattoos on the gang members' arms—stylized dragon motifs and crimson sakura blossoms.
"Yakuza?" Peter asked, his tone suddenly serious.
"Looks like it," Betsy confirmed, leaping silently to a closer perch. "Let's move."
Without another word, the two descended into the alley, Betsy landing gracefully while Peter swung down with a playful flip.
"Evening, gentlemen!" Peter quipped, landing in a crouch. "Just thought we'd swing by and see if anyone needed… oh, I don't know, a lesson in anger management?"
The gang members froze for a moment before reacting. A large man at the center snarled, pulling a knife. "Spider-Man. Should've known this city's pest problem would show up."
Betsy stepped forward, her psychic blade igniting in her hand with a faint glow. "You should worry less about pests and more about how quickly we can end this."
The alley erupted into chaos.
Peter's web-shooters fired rapidly, yanking weapons from hands and binding ankles. Betsy moved with lethal precision, her psychic blade slicing through metal and disarming opponents without inflicting permanent harm.
It wasn't long before the gang began to falter, their numbers thinning as they fell to webs or psychic strikes.
But just as Peter landed a blow on the last standing thug, his Spider-Sense flared—sharp and urgent.
"Incoming!" he shouted, twisting just in time to see a figure dart through the shadows, impossibly fast.
A masked assassin emerged from the darkness, their movements fluid and precise. Their blade slashed through one of Peter's webs as though it were paper. More assassins followed, stepping into the faint light.
Betsy's eyes narrowed, her stance shifting. "The Hand," she hissed.
"The who now?" Peter asked, leaping back to avoid a strike.
"The Hand," Betsy repeated, her psychic blade igniting brighter. "Skilled assassins. They don't just show up—they're sent."
Peter took a defensive stance, scanning the shadows. "Sent by who?"
Betsy didn't answer, her focus locked on the approaching assassins.
The alley fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of the assassins drawing their blades. The gang members, those still conscious, scrambled away, leaving Peter and Betsy alone against the mysterious new threat.
"I have a feeling we're about to find out," Peter said, his tone unusually grim. "Why do all the bad guys love half-finished buildings?" Peter muttered, his Spider-Man mask obscuring his face but not his frustration. "What happened to villainy in well-lit public spaces?"
Betsy smirked, her violet hair catching the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp. "If they were smart, they wouldn't be villains. Quiet, though. Something's ahead."
They climbed the skeletal structure of the site with ease, Peter using his webs and agility while Betsy moved with a dancer's grace, her mutant abilities enhancing her every step. As they reached a vantage point, they spotted a group of armed men surrounding a sleek, sharp-featured figure in a suit—Nyoirin Henecha.
"That's our guy," Betsy whispered.
"And he's got company," Peter added, noting the armed thugs flanking the yakuza leader.
Before they could act, another figure stepped into the dim light—a woman with striking violet hair, dressed in a sleek black ninja outfit. Her movements were fluid, her presence commanding.
"She looks... familiar," Peter whispered, glancing at Betsy.
Betsy's breath caught in her throat as she stared at the woman. It wasn't just the hair or the grace. It was something deeper, something that resonated within her mind like a faint echo.
"That's impossible," Betsy muttered.
The woman—Kwannon—drew twin blades, her gaze fixed on Nyoirin. "Your time is up, Henecha," she said, her voice calm but lethal.
Nyoirin smirked, signaling to his men. "I was wondering when the Hand would show up. Kill her."
The thugs charged, and Kwannon sprang into action. Her movements were a blur, blades slicing through the air with precision. The clash of steel echoed through the site as Nyoirin stepped back, barking orders.
"We can't just watch this," Peter said, readying his web-shooters.
"Agreed," Betsy replied, igniting her psychic blade.
The pair leaped into the fray, Peter webbing two of Nyoirin's men before they could fire their guns. Betsy landed in a crouch, her psychic blade slashing through a thug's weapon.
Kwannon paused mid-strike, her gaze snapping to Betsy. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as the two women locked eyes.
And then it happened.
Betsy staggered, clutching her head as a wave of psychic interference surged through her mind. Images flashed—Kwannon's memories, fragmented and chaotic, blending with Betsy's own thoughts. The sensation was overwhelming, disorienting.
"Betsy!" Peter shouted, leaping to her side.
"I'm fine," Betsy managed, though her voice was strained. She forced herself upright, her psychic blade flaring brighter as she focused on Kwannon.
Kwannon tilted her head, studying Betsy with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "You," she said, her tone unreadable. "What are you?"
Betsy didn't answer. Instead, she lunged, her psychic blade clashing with Kwannon's twin swords. The two women moved with equal speed and precision, their fight a deadly dance of strikes and parries.
Peter, meanwhile, kept Nyoirin's men at bay, his webs flying as he dodged gunfire and disarmed thugs. "Not to interrupt the epic ninja battle," he called, "but a little help here would be great!"
Betsy ignored him, her focus entirely on Kwannon. The interference in her mind grew stronger with each clash, fragments of Kwannon's life bleeding into her thoughts. She saw flashes of the Hand, Matsu'o Tsurayaba, and a life of relentless training and servitude.
Kwannon seemed equally affected, her strikes faltering as she hesitated. "This… shouldn't be possible," she murmured.
Taking advantage of the moment, Betsy disarmed Kwannon, her psychic blade held inches from the assassin's throat.
"Who are you?" Betsy demanded, her voice trembling slightly.
Kwannon smirked, despite her position. "You'll find out soon enough."
A flash bomb detonated nearby, filling the site with blinding light and smoke. When the smoke cleared, Kwannon was gone, leaving only the unconscious thugs and a shaken Betsy and Peter.
"Okay, what just happened?" Peter asked, lowering his mask to catch his breath.
Betsy didn't respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the spot where Kwannon had vanished. "I don't know," she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
But deep down, she feared she already did.
The moon hung high above New York City, its pale light casting long shadows over the streets. Betsy Braddock stood on a rooftop alongside Peter Parker, her breathing uneven, her mind clouded with a torrent of fragmented images that didn't belong to her.
"You okay, Bets?" Peter asked, his mask peeled up just enough to reveal the concern etched across his face.
"I…" Betsy hesitated, pressing her fingers to her temple as if she could physically hold the visions at bay. "I'm not sure."
She saw flashes of another life—a dojo filled with disciplined students, each move precise and deadly. A man with a cold, calculating gaze instructing her, his voice firm but distant. Matsu'o Tsurayaba. The name surfaced in her mind unbidden, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of loyalty and pain.
"Betsy?" Peter's voice snapped her back to the present.
"I'm fine," she lied, shaking her head. "Let's just finish this."
They moved swiftly, dropping into an alley where members of the Hand had been spotted coordinating their latest operation. The ninjas emerged from the shadows, their movements silent but menacing.
Peter sprang into action, his webs shooting out to disarm two of the attackers before they could draw their blades. "I'll never get tired of this whole 'ninja vanish' thing," he quipped, dodging a strike and landing a punch.
Betsy followed, her psychic blade igniting with a violet glow that cut through the darkness. She moved with deadly precision, each strike a perfect blend of skill and power. But as she fought, the visions intensified. She could see through her opponents' moves, not because of her telepathy, but because she knew them—knew the techniques as though they were her own.
"Enough games," she growled, spinning and landing a kick that sent one of the ninjas sprawling.
The last of the Hand retreated into the shadows, leaving Peter and Betsy standing amidst the aftermath. Peter pulled his mask up fully, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the scene. "That was… almost too easy," he said, his tone suspicious.
Betsy didn't respond. She stood still, her psychic blade fading as she clutched the edge of the nearby fire escape, her knuckles white.
Peter was at her side in an instant. "Hey, talk to me," he urged.
"I'm seeing things," Betsy admitted, her voice barely audible. "Memories. They're not mine, but they feel… familiar."
Peter frowned, his hand hovering near her shoulder. "You think it's connected to that ninja from earlier? Kwannon, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Betsy whispered. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, fear, and a strange sense of intrigue.
Peter sighed, looking around to ensure they weren't being watched before gently steering her toward the edge of the rooftop. "Come on. Mission's done for the night. Let's head back."
Betsy hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to stay, to dig deeper into the connection. But her body felt heavy, her mind overworked. She nodded reluctantly. "You're right," she said, her voice weary. "I need to sort this out."
The two of them swung and leapt across the city, the cool night air doing little to clear Betsy's thoughts.
As they reached their apartment, Peter helped her inside, watching her carefully. "We'll figure this out," he said softly, his hand brushing against hers.
Betsy gave him a small, grateful smile before retreating to the bedroom. But even as she lay down, the visions continued to flicker behind her closed eyelids. She saw Kwannon's face, her striking violet hair, and the haunting look of someone caught between two worlds.
And for the first time, Betsy wondered if that wasn't exactly what she was becoming, too.
Faiza Hussain's heart was anything but serene. Standing in the sprawling halls of Braddock Manor, she faced Brian Braddock, Captain Britain himself, her frustration barely contained. She was already given approval and where she was going. The fact that Brian still showed no interest in coming to the aid of his sister still left her impassioned at the fact Brian, superior or not, was unwilling to entertain the thought of sending help to address what was happening across the pond.
"You can't keep ignoring this, Brian!" Faiza exclaimed, her voice firm but laced with a pleading undertone. "Betsy's in trouble. I can feel it."
Brian leaned heavily against the oak table in the study, his face etched with conflict. "Betsy's made her choice," he said quietly, his tone more defensive than dismissive. "She's chosen her path with the X-Men. She doesn't need me interfering."
"Interfering?" Faiza's voice rose slightly. "You're her brother, Brian! She might not admit it, but she needs you."
Brian straightened, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the dimly lit room. "You think I don't care?" he asked sharply, his voice tinged with pain. "I've tried, Faiza. Over and over. Every time, I just push her further away. She's better off without me hovering."
Faiza sighed, her frustration giving way to understanding but not agreement. "This isn't about hovering. This is about her being in danger. Something is happening—something bigger than just her usual missions. I don't know what, but I can't sit by and do nothing."
Brian looked away, his jaw tightening. The room fell silent except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Finally, he turned back to her, his expression softening. "If you really believe this is what you need to do, Faiza… you have my blessing. Go to her."
Relief washed over Faiza, though it was tempered by the weight of what lay ahead. "Thank you, Brian," she said earnestly.
As she turned to leave, Brian's voice stopped her. "Be careful," he said, his tone quieter now. "And tell Megan to keep things steady here while you're gone."
Faiza nodded. "She's already agreed to cover for me. You won't even notice I'm gone."
Brian chuckled dryly. "I doubt that, but I trust you'll do what's right."
With that, Faiza left the study, her resolve solidified.
Outside, Megan Gwynn—Pixie—waited in the garden, her bright pink hair standing out against the fading light. She was perched on a stone bench, twirling a small flower between her fingers.
"So?" Megan asked as Faiza approached.
"He said yes," Faiza replied, exhaling deeply.
Megan smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I figured he would. He's just… you know how he is."
Faiza nodded, her expression softening. "I do. And I know this isn't easy for him." She hesitated, then added, "Thank you, Megan. For covering for me."
Megan waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, please. I'll just tell him I've been practicing spells or something. You focus on Betsy."
Faiza grinned despite the gravity of the situation. "I owe you one."
"Just come back in one piece," Megan said, her tone light but sincere.
With that, Faiza turned and headed toward the sleek transport vehicle that would take her to the airport.
As the plane soared over the Atlantic, Faiza stared out of the window, her thoughts racing. She didn't know exactly what she would find in New York City, but she was certain of one thing: Betsy needed her. And Faiza would do whatever it took to stand by her side.
July 9, 2009
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the small kitchen as Peter Parker sat at the table, staring into his mug. The early morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. He drummed his fingers absently against the table, his thoughts elsewhere.
Across from him, Aunt May bustled about, slicing a loaf of bread for toast. Despite her cheerful hum, she noticed the distant look on Peter's face.
"You've been awfully quiet this morning, Peter," May said, setting a plate of buttered toast in front of him. "Something on your mind?"
Peter hesitated, his fingers wrapping around the mug. "Yeah," he admitted after a pause. "It's about Betsy."
May raised her eyebrows, pulling out a chair to sit across from him. "Is everything all right with the two of you?"
"Yes. No. I don't know," Peter said, running a hand through his hair. "She's… amazing, May. Strong, brave, and so sure of herself in a way that I don't even understand sometimes. But lately, she's been… restless. Struggling with something I can't quite put my finger on."
May nodded thoughtfully, her expression softening. "She's up on the roof right now, isn't she?"
"Yeah," Peter said, glancing out the window toward the rooftop. "She's meditating. It's something she does when she's trying to center herself."
May leaned forward, resting her hand on Peter's. "Peter, you've always had a knack for taking on everyone else's burdens. But sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone is to let them carry their own for a while."
Peter frowned. "I just want to help her, May. She's dealing with so much—her past, her identity, everything that comes with being who she is. I feel like I should be doing more."
"You're already doing plenty," May said gently. "You're there for her. You listen. You care. And that's all anyone can ask for in a partner."
Peter looked down at his coffee, the steam rising in lazy spirals. "But what if it's not enough? What if she needs more than I can give her?"
May gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Then trust her to let you know when she does. Relationships aren't about solving each other's problems, Peter. They're about walking through them together, even if you're not always on the same step."
Peter smiled faintly, her words sinking in. "You always know what to say."
May chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "I've had a lot of practice, dear. But I'll tell you this—Betsy is lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. Just remember to give her the space to figure things out for herself. Sometimes, that's the greatest support you can offer."
Peter nodded, feeling a little lighter. "Thanks, May."
"Anytime," she said with a warm smile. "Now, eat your toast before it gets cold. You've got a long day ahead of you."
As Peter took a bite, he glanced out the window again, his eyes drifting toward the rooftop. He didn't have all the answers, but he knew one thing for certain—he'd be there for Betsy, no matter what.
The soft hum of the city waking up surrounded Betsy Braddock as she sat cross-legged on the rooftop of Peter's apartment. The cool morning breeze whispered through her violet hair, carrying the scent of rain from the night before. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts that had plagued her since her encounter with Kwannon.
But peace was elusive.
Visions flickered in her mind—flashes of memories that weren't hers. A quiet Japanese garden beneath a crimson moon. The swish of a katana slicing through the air. A delicate hand brushing through strands of dark violet hair. The images blurred and shifted, leaving Betsy with a profound sense of unease.
She opened her eyes abruptly, her heart pounding. The city skyline stretched before her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that her world was narrowing, converging into something unfamiliar.
Who am I?
The question had haunted her for days. Since the fight with Kwannon, her psychic bond with the assassin had only grown stronger. At first, it had been faint—a thread of awareness lingering in the back of her mind. But now it was a tether, pulling her into a life that wasn't hers.
Betsy rubbed her temples, frustration bubbling to the surface. She had always been confident in her identity. Elizabeth Braddock, the brilliant, bold sister of Captain Britain. A telepath. A warrior. But now, that certainty was slipping through her fingers.
The memories felt so real, so vivid, as if she had lived them herself. She could feel the discipline of Kwannon's martial training in her muscles, the weight of a life spent in service to a master. And yet, those experiences clashed violently with her own—her upbringing in Britain, her battles with the X-Men, her blossoming life with Peter.
"What's happening to me?" she whispered aloud, her voice carried away by the wind.
She tried to reach for clarity, delving into her psychic core. The connection with Kwannon was there, pulsating like a second heartbeat. Betsy hesitated, then pushed deeper, searching for answers.
Suddenly, her vision blurred, and she was no longer on the rooftop.
She stood in a shadowy dojo, the air thick with incense and tension. Kwannon knelt before a figure shrouded in darkness, her head bowed in deference. Betsy could feel the weight of loyalty, the unyielding sense of duty that bound Kwannon to this life.
"Serve without question," a deep voice intoned.
The vision snapped back to reality, and Betsy gasped, clutching the rooftop for balance. Her body trembled, her mind reeling from the intensity of the experience.
She buried her face in her hands, her breath ragged. The lines between her and Kwannon were blurring, and she didn't know how to stop it. For the first time in years, she felt untethered, adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
"Betsy?"
She turned sharply to see Peter standing in the doorway to the rooftop, his expression filled with concern. He was still dressed in his work clothes, his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder.
"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping closer.
She hesitated, her instinct to shield him from her turmoil. But as she looked into his worried eyes, she realized she couldn't keep this from him.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Peter sat beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together."
Betsy gave him a small, grateful smile, though the weight of her uncertainty still pressed heavily on her. She leaned against him, drawing strength from his steady presence.
As the city buzzed to life around them, Betsy silently vowed to find the answers she needed—even if it meant confronting the parts of herself she feared the most.
The early morning sun filtered through the cracks in the warehouse's dilapidated ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. The building, nestled in a forgotten corner of New York's docks, served as the temporary headquarters for Nyoirin Henecha.
Nyoirin sat at a metal table in the center of the room, his impeccably tailored suit contrasting sharply with the grimy surroundings. Despite his fall from grace in Japan, he carried himself with an air of authority, his sharp features betraying none of the turmoil that had driven him into exile. A steaming cup of tea rested before him, untouched.
He glanced at his watch. They should have arrived by now.
As if on cue, the heavy metal door groaned open, and three figures strode into the room.
First was Silver Sable, her silver hair tied back in a precise ponytail. She exuded professionalism, her combat gear immaculate and her movements deliberate. Her piercing gaze scanned the warehouse, assessing every potential threat before focusing on Nyoirin.
Behind her, Bullseye sauntered in, his trademark smirk plastered across his face. He twirled a knife lazily between his fingers, his every step radiating cocky self-assurance.
The last to enter was Taskmaster, his skull-like mask gleaming under the dim light. He moved with a calculated precision, his body language cool and composed. His infamous shield rested on his back, and his hands remained ready at his sides.
Nyoirin stood, offering a curt nod. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Silver Sable crossed her arms, her tone brisk. "You're paying a premium, Henecha. What's the job?"
Nyoirin gestured for them to sit, though only Bullseye complied, slouching into a chair with an exaggerated yawn. The other two remained standing, their eyes locked on their potential employer.
"The Hand has begun moving against me," Nyoirin began, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Their leader, Matsu'o Tsurayaba, seeks to eliminate me and seize what remains of my empire. I cannot allow that to happen."
"And you want us to stop them," Taskmaster said, his tone more observation than question.
Nyoirin nodded. "Precisely. The Hand is relentless, but they are not invincible. With your combined skills, I believe we can push back their advances long enough for me to solidify my operations here in New York."
Bullseye chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "You're playing a dangerous game, Nyoirin. The Hand doesn't exactly take kindly to people who fight back." He twirled his knife once more before stabbing it into the table. "But I do love a good challenge."
Silver Sable raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by Bullseye's theatrics. "What's the scope of the operation? Are we talking defense, offense, or both?"
"Both," Nyoirin replied, his tone firm. "I need protection for my assets, but I also want you to strike at their operations. Disrupt their plans. Make them think twice before coming after me."
Taskmaster tilted his head slightly. "And the pay?"
Nyoirin slid a briefcase across the table. Taskmaster opened it, revealing stacks of crisp bills and several high-value gemstones. He closed it with a satisfied nod.
"Consider this an advance," Nyoirin said. "There will be more once the job is complete."
Silver Sable exchanged a glance with Taskmaster before nodding. "You've got a deal."
Bullseye grinned, pulling his knife from the table. "This is gonna be fun."
Nyoirin allowed himself a small smile, though his mind remained focused on the battle ahead. He knew the Hand would not relent, but with these mercenaries at his side, he had a fighting chance to maintain control of his empire.
As the three mercenaries left to prepare, Nyoirin turned back to his tea, finally taking a sip. The game was in motion, and he intended to win—no matter the cost.
Author's Note: Hello everyone, so here we have another major development for the villains along with the growing conflict Psylocke is going to go through. I also hope you enjoy the introduction of the villain's on Nyoirin's side along with what they'll bring in the future.
I would also like to thank some recent reviews as well. Especially to NothingSpecial43 because you might be right that I rushed the hookup part. I was really hoping I managed to get enough of a story to make the introduction work but hopefully I might be able to make some character exchanges that justify them being together.
I also understand if the X-Men feel like they're more background characters right now. I actually have plans in future chapters to make them more prominent. I will do my best to take any future suggestions into consideration and hopefully produce a better story as a result and I hope to hear from you again.
For KaidoFett, admittedly I haven't made any plans on introducing any of Peter's exes at this point. I basically mentioned Gwen Stacy in passing, made Mary Jane Watson just friends with Peter in this setting, and I don't think Peter would have met Marrow or Shadowcat by now. So for right now I won't commit to saying, "no," but I'll have to see if I can find a way to make an introduction like that work. Making a shuriken launcher for her does sound like it could be interested so I can probably work it in at some point.
That should be it for now and hopefully the story will continue to build up and be an uphill journey. I hope to see you all then.