Being from a country with a climate that can at best be called "temperamental", Betsy Braddock has never been much bothered by the rain.
Though tonight is a bit dreary even for my standards. I feel sorry for whatever poor bastard has to be out in...
She sees a figure on the lawn, limps splayed like a drowned man floating on the surface of a lake.
I really should mind my thoughts more often. They have an unfortunate tendency of coming true.
Instantly, instinctively, Betsy dashes out, umbrella in hand. She kneels beside the stranger, her face a mask of concern.
"Hullo? Are you all right? Can you hear me?"
Her eyes roam his figure as she checks him over, rolling him onto his back. He's blond, muscular, and built like an Olympian statue. As his right hand moves over the rest of his frame, Betsy notices the object clutched in it...the handle of a hammer.
"Thor?!"
First Loki, now his brother. This must be my week for Asgardians. And I've never even been to the sodding place.
Despite this brief moment of exasperation, Betsy continues her brief examination. He needs help, after all, and what right does Psylocke have to turn him down, whatever horror stories the trickster's told?
Besides...may not be the same Thor. Wouldn't that just drive Loki mad...the brother he hates right here in the mansion with him, and he's not even the version of his brother who abused him?