Template:Featured Articles/10-2021

Moment of Awesome - Betsy Braddock/Psylocke: Quentin Quire comes across Betsy sleepwalking and they have a deeply unsettling interaction. Whereas Quentin, now back at the mansion from his several-months-long hiatus, was perfectly comfortable treading the halls in his briefs and a crop top emblazoned with an image of Magneto's helmet colored like a pride flag. His kitchen cupboards were empty save a few half-empty bottles of gin and vodka, and he needed something to soak up all of that. With the holidays approaching, there was plenty of people's practice meals in the communal kitchen, so that was his destination. It was not too unusual to find another nighttime wanderer, particularly someone else with the munchies, so he did not give Betsy a second thought as he passed her. He did give a third thought, though, as he telepathically picked up her presence, or rather lack thereof. Dull and muted, like she wasn't actually there. Curious, he turned around and called her name. There was no indication she had heard him. Instead, she reached up and opened one of the more rarely used top cupboards. Then closed it. Then opened it again before meandering to the other side of the room and doing the same to the cupboard opposite to the first. A poorly balanced jar of ancient pickles clattered to the floor. Quentin retrieved the thankfully not-shattered jar and raised an eyebrow at her, examining her to see if maybe she was wearing Airpods. "Braddock. Hey, Braddock. The fuck are you doing?" He telekinetically sent the jar back to its home and then tapped the other psi on the shoulder. While Quentin's questions went unanswered, the physical contact elicited a response. With more dexterity than her previous aimlessness would suggest, Betsy turned around, grabbed the offending hand, and pushed it's owner against the kitchen counter. "Fuck fuck fuck!" The curse came out as more of a whimper than Quentin would have liked, but how else would someone react when assaulted like this? He squirmed and her grip became even tighter. Any more and he feared she would snap his arm in two. His breath coming out in short rapid spurts, his vision blurred under tears of anguish he failed to fight back, he did the first thing that came to mind: belching a wild burst of psychic energy at his offender. The cupboards and drawers rattled in the wake of a telekinetic wave, while his telepathy slammed against Betsy's mind like a battering ram. Betsy released her hold and staggered back before less than gracefully falling down. As soon as the telepathic attack started her face had gone slack, and she now resembled a marionette with its strings cut, if said marionette had then been hit across the room with a telekinetic baseball bat. She lifted one hand to her face very slowly. “Ow." Quentin spun around and braced himself against the counter with one hand, holding out his other to ward off Betsy. "Take another step and I'll boil your brain, you fucking psycho!" he warned her with a trembling voice. “Que-… Quentin?” It came out as a question. “Where’s… Why am I in the kitchen?,” she asked uncertainly, then brought both hands to her face. “Oh, not again."