Today, of course, was one of those rare occasions when he opened the doors of his office and made himself available to the few people in town he was interested in seeing. Those he was trying to avoid were escorted back to the elevators that led down to the lobby—with or without all their teeth.
The Minister didn’t mind fawning sycophants. He just hated it when they did their fawning during business hours.
Betsy stepped onto the main hallway of the seventy-fifth floor, pausing a moment to recover from the pressure on her ear drums created by a higher altitude and an elevator that rose at a speed of 1600 feet per minute. Pinching her nose closed with her thumb and forefinger, she blew hard, then opened her mouth, and was rewarded with the sensation of having her full hearing restored.
And that was when the butterflies in her stomach began flitting about.
“Oh, give it a rest,” she muttered to herself. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment, then released it, and pulled herself up to her full, spike-heel-assisted height. “Right,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
Confidently, she strode down the tiled hallway toward a set of oak-paneled doors; gold-leaf lettering was set into the wood:
MINISTER OF ENTERTAINMENT
OPEN:
WHENEVER
BUSINESS HOURS:
DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH WAITING
Betsy’s eyes were drawn to another line, inscribed above the door frame:
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER
“Wonderful. . Betsy murmured. Screwing up her courage, she grasped the doorknob, turned it, and walked into the office.
It was like stepping into a child’s version of how an office should be designed. Instead of the typical furniture one would expect to find, the reception area was a mass of candy-colored tables and chairs with intentionally twisted legs and seat-backs. Above the receptionist’s desk hung ceiling-mounted monitors, on which were being broadcast cartoons and situation comedies and the classic movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Betsy smiled, feeling a pleasant chill run up her spine as she watched actor Gene Wilder as Wonka bend down to whisper to the child actress playing the obnoxious Veruca Salt. “We are the makers of music, and we are the dreamers of dreams,” Wilder said softly. Betsy mouthed the words along with him.
On the other side of the room were a collection of pinball machines and old-style video arcade games, their bells and whistles and electronic music battling for attention and combining to create a white noise that rumbled across the black-and-white checkered carpeting to send a tingling sensation through Betsy’s toes. And at the far end of the reception area was a wall constructed with a false perspective, so that it appeared the office continued on for another hundred yards. Betsy raised a quizzical eyebrow. Despite what Warren had told her about the man in advance, it seemed that the Minister was an odder egg than even her beau had known.
Her eye was drawn to hung an immense, framed poster hanging on a wall near the front door; it was a promotional item for the hugely-popular animated television show Obnoxio the Clown. Sitting curbside on a cobblestoned street, holding a fishing pole that dangled above an open manhole, the star of the show, repugnant in his grotesque green-and-white makeup and costume, glared out at the viewer, as though angered that he was being observed; either that, or he was annoyed by the fact that a dog standing behind him appeared to be urinating on the back of his costume. A word balloon hung above the clown, its tail leading to yellowed teeth sunk into the end of a smoldering cigar: “There ain’t no free lunch!” Obnoxio was saying—an infamous, and incredibly overused, catchphrase that he often muttered on the show.
Betsy slowly shook her head. She’d never understood what was supposed to be so humorous about the violent, often vulgar, program, though Warren seemed to think it was outrageously funny. He’d once commented that her reaction was a prime example of the differences between men and women. He called it “Three Stooges Syndrome”: a condition in which men thought Moe, Larry, and Curly were the be-all and end-all of slapstick comedy, and women thought it was all incredibly stupid. She just thought it was a lack of ingenuity—though it was to be expected in a country that had never possessed the sophistication to create a Blackadder or a Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
Americans. . . Betsy thought, and shrugged.
“Can I help you?” asked a strong, feminine voice from behind her. Betsy turned toward the source of the question, and found herself facing an attractive Japanese woman; clad in a bright red dress that seemed two sizes too small, she was in her mid-twenties, dark hair cut in a shoulder-length pageboy style. Light green eyes coolly studied her from beneath inky bangs.
Betsy smiled. “Good afternoon. I have a twelve o’clock appointment with the Minister.”
The woman looked her up and down for a few moments. “Braddock,” she finally said. A sneer creased her perfect, pale-white skin. “Worthington’s little songbird.”
Betsy started. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, surprised by the venom in the woman’s tone. “And just who the hell are you?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, locking eyes with Betsy. “I am Miss Locke, the Minister’s personal assistant,” she said, almost growling, “and I am not impressed by pathetic little nobodies who must rely on their boyfriends to suck up to government officials to give them work.”
“Oh. Slept your way to the top, then, did you?” Betsy asked tersely. The butterflies in her stomach were quickly forgotten, replaced by a roiling surge of anger-laced bile that made her throat bum. She folded her arms across her chest and planted her feet squarely on the carpeted floor, almost daring this uppity secretary to try and throw her out of the office.
The intercom on Locke’s desk suddenly buzzed, breaking the tension. Clearly angry that she was forced to break eye contact with Betsy, Locke hurried to answer the summons.
“Yes, Minister?” she asked.
“Miss Locke,” said a voice that sounded to Betsy like a cross between singer Paul Williams and a young Mickey Rooney, “do I hear the beginnings of a cat fight out there?”
Locke glared at Betsy; the heat between them was almost palpable.
“I’m sorry, Minister,” Locke finally said.
“Oh, don’t apologize,” the Minister replied. “I love a good cat fight—gets the blood racing. Unfortunately, I need to speak with Miss Braddock while she still has a throat to sing with. Could you send her in?”
“At once, Minister,” Locke said, still staring at Betsy. The lavender-tressed “songbird” grinned broadly like a Cheshire Cat. Locke sneered and gestured toward the wall behind her desk. “This way.”
Betsy followed her around the separation, down a short corridor that ran behind the reception area, and to another set of double-doors. Locke rapped softly on the dark wood.
“Come on in! Don’t be a stranger!” shouted the Minister.
Locke opened the doors and, with one last heated look at Betsy, stepped aside to usher her into the office. Once Betsy had crossed the threshold, Locke closed the doors—just managing to avoid clipping Betsy on the funny bone.
Now rid of her surly escort, Betsy took a moment to look around. The office was much like the reception area, decorated in the same Wonka-esque style; Betsy half expected an Oompa-Loompa to come sauntering out of a hidden panel in the walls. On the far side of the room stood the only piece of “adult” furniture: a long, wide, oaken desk, on which sat telephones, a personal computer, toy figures—“action figures,” she believed they were called—an assortment of papers, and issues of Daily Variety. Beyond the desk was a large, black leather chair, its straight back turned toward her; past the chair was a spectacular view of upper Manhattan and the New Jersey Palisades standing proudly across the Hudson River, all on display through windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.
Betsy smiled whimsically as she gazed at her bizarre surroundings. She had heard of the “Peter Pan Syndrome”—a psychological term for men who refused to grow up—but u
ntil today she had never seen evidence of anyone who actually suffered from it.
“Quite a view, innit?” asked the Minister. With a start, Betsy realized he was sitting in the leather chair, with his back to her.
“Yes, it is,” she replied. She softly cleared her throat and approached the desk. “I’d like to thank you for coming to see my act, Minister—I know we didn’t get a chance to speak at the theater, what with your busy schedule and all—and for taking the time to see me today.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Braddock,” her host said cheerfully. “Any friend of ol’ bird-boy Warren is a friend’a mine, right? Besides, if you didn’t have the kinda pipes I heard last night—and the kinda looks I got a gander at—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” He swiveled the chair around to face her.
When she laid eyes on him, it was all Betsy could do to keep from laughing.
The Minister wasn’t very tall, and his suit was as brilliant a white as his unruly mop of hair was red; Betsy was reminded of a dish of vanilla ice cream topped with a maraschino cherry. His lack of sartorial tastes went even further beyond belief, as evidenced by an off-putting pistachio-green shirt and an oversized, clownish bowtie with red polka-dots. All in all, he looked less like a high-ranking government official and more like a circus ringmaster—or a used car salesman.
And yet, there was something familiar about the man, though Betsy couldn’t quite put her mental finger on it—something that made her wonder if they had met before ...
Eyes sparkling with dark mischief, he practically leapt from his chair to greet her.
“And please—don’t call me ‘Minister,’ ” he said. “The name is Arcade, sweets.” He smiled broadly and extended his hand in greeting.
“All right, if you call me ‘Betsy,’ ” she replied. Betsy reached out and clasped his hand in hers—
And stiffened as something akin to a powerful electrical current suddenly surged through her body, pinning her to the spot.
She screamed in agony—a short, brief note—just before darkness overwhelmed her.
“BETSY!"
Standing on the comer of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, Jean Grey came to a sudden halt, eyes widened in shock. Beside her, the other X-Men and Carol Danvers gathered around as Jean stared off into the distance, her fingertips touching her temples. They did their best to ignore the lunchtime crowds who jostled and bumped into them, though Nightcrawler clearly felt uncomfortable by the open-mouthed stares directed his way.
Scott moved closer to his wife. “What is it, Jean?”
“It’s Betsy,” she replied. “For just a second, I detected her thoughts—but they were jumbled, confused.” Jean turned to gaze at her husband, her bright green eyes filled with concern. “She was in pain, Scott—terrible pain. And . . . Arcade was with her.” She paused, and turned her gaze downward. “And then she ... stopped sending.”
The X-Men silently looked at one another, their expressions grim.
“And what does that mean?” Carol asked.
“It means,” Kurt explained through tightened lips, “that Betsy is either unconscious, or. . .” His voice trailed off.
Carol didn’t need a further explanation.
There’s an old chestnut that claims that, just before you die, you see your entire life flashing before you, from childhood all the way to your last moment on Earth.
If such were the case, Betsy Braddock could not understand why, then, she was seeing the life of the Minister of Entertainment being played out before her.
It wasn’t his complete life story, thankfully; more like a highlights reel of his career. But what made the situation even more peculiar was that she was seeing events that could not possibly have happened—at least, not the sort of events one would associate with a member of Emperor von Doom’s cabinet. Scenes of costumed men and women, like those in the “comic book” movies, running through mazes and avoiding movie serial-like death traps and being bounced about in giant pinball machines.
And all of the devices were being controlled by Arcade himself.
I don’t remember ever hearing about the Minister playing at being a cinema villain, Betsy thought. Although with that suit of his he could almost have stepped straight out of one of Roger Moore's James Bond movies. ..
But now other images—not images, but memories, she realized with a start—began to form: of herself a few years ago, in a different—and decidedly non-Asian—body, shopping in London (she could tell it was supposed to be her—the lavender hair was a dead giveaway); of a handkerchief being pressed over her face, and the smell of a powerful anesthetic; of that snooty cow Miss Locke carrying her from a van into something called “Murderworld”; of her brother, Brian, dressed in a bright red costume with a yellow, lion-shaped silhouette emblazoned across the chest—like an outfit worn by one of those outlandish super heroes—calling himself “Captain Britain,” and coming to her rescue.
And above it all, like a giant, grotesque sculpture of a demonic head displayed at the entrance to an amusement park funhouse ride, hung the sinister, leering face of the Minister of Entertainment.
What’s all this about? Betsy wondered. How could any of these be my memories, especially when—thank God—I’ve never even met the Minister’s “personal assistant” before today? And that nonsense about looking Caucasian—when did my imagination get so bloody colorful?
But, more importantly, if I’ve died, then why is it that my head hurts so . . . ?
“Hey, you okay there, Betsy?” It was Arcade’s voice, but it sounded as though it was being broadcast through a bad transmitter, like the muffled sound made by someone speaking into a telephone with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
Slowly, Betsy opened her eyes. She was lying on a sofa shaped like a pink-colored carp, her head resting on a pillow that looked like a giant lobster from some children’s cartoon; a dampened handkerchief sat coolly on her brow.
“I-I’m not dead ..she whispered, partly in disbelief.
“Not by a long shot, sweets,” Arcade said, “though you had us going there for a minute.”
Looking up, Betsy saw him standing beside her, bent forward, hands resting on his knees. Behind Arcade, Miss Locke sneered at her—
“Try not to cause us too much trouble, little girl, ” she said, reaching forward to tie a paisley-colored handkerchief over Betsy’s mouth; the cloth smelled faintly of lilacs. “Arcade prefers that all participants play the game in their own way, without outside assistance. ”
She checked to make certain that the gag was knotted securely, then stepped back to look at her employer. Arcade, leaning on a thin, bamboo cane, a straw skimmer sitting at a rakish angle on his head, flashed a wicked smile.
“Now, the fun begins ...” he said.
“Back again?” Arcade asked cheerfully. “You know, Warren didn’t tell me you were a narcoleptic.”
Betsy blinked twice and stared blankly at Arcade, who was now sitting on a chair beside the couch. Obviously, some time had passed since their last brief exchange.
With a start, she realized that she had blacked out again.
But why had it happened? What had caused it?
She was certain it had everything to do with that surge of electricity she had felt when she touched Arcade’s hand—but was it something he had done intentionally? If so, for what reason?
And what were these visions she was having during her bouts of unconsciousness—these melodramatic scenes of facing dire peril at the hands of the Minister and his assistant? She had had the odd feeling that they’d met once before, but surely it must have been at a party, or at the ballet, or a movie premier she had attended with Warren—not as a helpless kidnap victim being used as a prize in a bizarre game intended to trap her brother. Maybe it was just her fear of failing Warren—of failing herself, really—at play here, and her subconscious mind was causing her to see the Minister and Miss Locke as a threat to her desire to finally make a name for herself.
Couldn’t that be it?
And yet, there was something about the visions—something that her mind was insisting was real; that they were not fanciful manifestations created by an overactive imagination, but actual suppressed memories of an actual terrifying event in her life.
But why, then, couldn’t she remember experiencing it?
What in God’s name was going on with her?
A soft grunting noise drew her attention back to reality and over to Arcade’s assistant. Clearly disgusted at the sight of a woman who appeared to have had a fainting spell brought on by all the excitement of meeting the honest-to-God Minister of Entertainment himself, Miss Locke turned on her heel and left the office.
“W-what is happening to me. . . ?” Betsy asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, sweets,” Arcade said. “Soon as we shook hands, you went stiffer than Tony Stark on a three-day bender and keeled right over. And then, just as I was about to explain all that to you after you woke up, you plopped down again and took another catnap.”
Betsy paused to replay the initial event in her mind. She nodded slowly as it all came back to her. “But, didn’t you feel the shock when we touched? The electrical shock?”
Arcade stared at her, obviously confused. “Shock?” He chuckled. “Well, I left my joy buzzer in my other pants, so that couldn’t have been the cause of it. But I might’ve accidentally rubbed my feet on the carpet before we touched . . . although that’s not the kind of thing that can knock you out, you know?”
“No, I suppose not. ..” Betsy said slowly. Pushing off from the lobster-pillow, she sat up and removed the cold compress from her forehead. “I’m sorry for all the melodrama, Minister. That’s never happened to me before.” She shook her head. “God, I feel like such an a—” “Hey, it’s all right,” Arcade said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. “No harm, no foul. Besides, you’ve just provided proof positive of what I’ve always suspected: I’ve got a real electric personality.” He reached out a hand to her and smiled, and—
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