Chapter 6: Psychic Retrieval
The world returned in fragments. The smell of ozone and scorched stone. The rough texture of ancient granite against her cheek. A deep, radiating ache that mapped every bone and muscle in her body. And a new presence—a cool, focused awareness that hovered at the edge of her senses like a blade held perfectly still.
Diana groaned, trying to move. Her arms were leaden, useless. She managed to lift her head a fraction.
A woman knelt beside her. She was nude, her skin gleaming like polished pearl in the stray shafts of moonlight that pierced the ruined roof. Her posture was one of casual, predatory ease. Long, purple hair fell around a face of striking, sharp beauty. Her eyes, a vivid violet, studied Diana with detached, clinical interest. Diana’s muddled mind scrambled for context. This wasn’t Dejah. This wasn’t anyone from Themyscira.
“The alarms went off,” the woman said. Her voice was British, crisp, layered with amusement. “Veronica’s sensors picked up a massive energy discharge. Ancient magic, category six. Thought it might be you doing something… dramatic.”
Diana tried to speak. Her throat was raw. “Who…?”
“Betsy Braddock. Psylocke, if you prefer codenames.” Her gaze traveled slowly, unabashedly, over Diana’s sprawled, filthy form. “Veronica Cale sends her regards. And a job offer. Though seeing you like this, I’m starting to think her intel was a bit off the mark.”
Veronica Cale. The name was a splash of cold water. A ruthless biotech CEO with a grudge against “mythic” beings, obsessed with dissecting their power. Diana had thwarted her before. This was a bounty hunter.
Adrenaline, thin and pathetic, trickled into Diana’s veins. She tried to push herself up. Her arms trembled violently and gave out. She collapsed back onto the stone with a gasp.
“Oh, don’t strain yourself,” Betsy said, not unkindly. She reached out, and her fingers, cool and precise, brushed a streak of soot from Diana’s shoulder. The touch was electrifying in its simplicity. “You’ve had quite a night. Tying yourself up to old temples. Letting them fry you. kinky, but not very smart, love.”
Shame, hot and immediate, flooded Diana. She had been witnessed. Not in the controlled environment of the X-frame, but in her most private, depraved moment of abandon. This stranger had seen her convulse, scream, beg the stones for more.
“It’s not… what you think,” Diana rasped.
“I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Betsy replied, her head tilting. A faint, psychic shimmer—the outline of a butterfly—flitted at her temple and was gone. “And honestly? I’m not here to judge. I’m here to collect. But I do have to say…” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “The nudity curse. Circe’s work, yes? Bold choice. And you wear it… interestingly.”
Diana flinched. The comment wasn’t leering. It was observational, like noting the finish on a weapon. Betsy Braddock’s own nudity was clearly a choice, an unarmored state she wore with utter nonchalance. It was different. It was control.
“Why are you… undressed?” Diana managed.
A quick, genuine smile. “Heat. Humidity. And this leotard is a bitch to clean after a jungle trek. Simpler this way.” She shrugged, the movement fluid. “Besides, seems only fair. You’re a bit indisposed. Levels the field.”
Betsy stood up in one smooth motion. She looked down at Diana, her expression shifting from curiosity to operational focus. “Right. Up you get. Can you walk, or am I carrying you?”
“I am not going with you.” Diana summoned every ounce of will, forcing her body to obey. She got one knee under her, then the other. She swayed, the world tilting. The aftershocks of the temple’s magic still vibrated in her marrow.
“You really are,” Betsy said softly. She didn’t move to stop her. She just watched, arms crossed under her breasts. “Look at you. You can barely stand. What’s your play? Lasso of Truth? You don’t have it. Super-strength? Your synapses are fried. I can feel the static from here.” She tapped her temple. “Telepath. Remember?”
Diana lunged. It was a pitiful, stumbling charge, all instinct and no grace.
Betsy sidestepped effortlessly. As Diana stumbled past, Betsy’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to press two fingers against the base of Diana’s skull. A pinpoint of psychic energy, cold and sharp as a needle, jolted into her.
Diana’s legs vanished. She crumpled, her body going rigid, then limp. She lay on her side, breathing hard, fully conscious but unable to so much as twitch a finger. Paralysis.
“See?” Betsy said, walking around to stand in front of Diana’s line of sight. “Not a contest.”
Fury and humiliation warred with the sheer, debilitating exhaustion. A tear of pure frustration leaked from the corner of Diana’s eye, tracing a clean path through the grime on her cheek.
Betsy saw it. Her smirk faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. She knelt again. “Veronica wants you in a lab. Wants to see what makes you tick. Thinks she can synthesize your ‘essence’ or some corporate nonsense.” She paused. “I took the job because the pay was astronomical, and I don’t have a particular dog in the fight between gods and boardrooms.”
She reached out, but this time her touch was different. She didn’t wipe away the tear. Instead, her fingers gently moved a strand of sweat-matted hair from Diana’s forehead. The gesture was shockingly intimate.
“But I’ve read your surface thoughts,” Betsy continued, her voice low. “The noise is fading. I see the frame. I see the ropes you chose. I see the conflict.” Her violet eyes held Diana’s. “You’re not just a prize. You’re a mess. A beautiful, powerful, terrifying mess.”
Diana could only stare, trapped in her own body.
Betsy stood, decision made. “I’m not taking you to Veronica. Not like this.”
With a flick of her wrist, a shimmering, violet field of psychic energy manifested beneath Diana. It lifted her effortlessly, cradling her naked form a few feet above the broken floor. Diana floated, suspended in a bubble of cool, alien light, completely at Betsy’s mercy.
“Then… what?” Diana forced the words out, her jaw tight.
Betsy began to walk, and Diana’s floating prison drifted along beside her, gliding over the rubble. They moved out of the temple’s central chamber, into a narrower, darker corridor within the ruins.
“Then we talk,” Betsy said, not looking at her. “You’re a weapon turned on yourself, Diana. That’s a dangerous thing. And Veronica Cale isn’t the only one who collects dangerous things.”
She led them deeper into the mountain, away from the moon, into a warm, natural cavern illuminated by glowing lichen. A small, clear hot spring steamed in the center, and against one wall was a neat stack of supplies—a backpack, a folded jumpsuit, a sealed case.
Betsy’s hidden camp.
With another gesture, she lowered Diana gently onto a smooth, flat section of rock beside the water. The psychic paralysis released.
Diana sucked in a sharp breath, her body her own again. She immediately tried to scramble up, to fight, but her limbs were still uncoordinated, weak.
“Oh, stop,” Betsy sighed, rolling her eyes. She turned to her pack and pulled out a canteen. She tossed it. It landed with a clatter next to Diana’s hip. “Drink. You’re dehydrated. Then get in the spring. The minerals will help with the nerve damage. You’re welcome.”
Diana stared at the canteen, then at the steaming pool, then at her captor—who was now ignoring her, rummaging in her case. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Capture was supposed to be chains, taunts, a struggle. Not this… bizarre, casual caretaking.
“What do you want, Braddock?” Diana asked, her voice stronger.
Betsy pulled out a slender, metallic device. A data pad. She powered it on, the blue light washing over her face. “Initially? The bounty. Now?” She finally looked over, her gaze frank and assessing. “I want to understand the commodity. I want to know why Wonder Woman flies to a deserted island to get herself electrocuted into a coma by rocks. The psychology is… fascinating. And in my line of work, understanding is the only currency that never devalues.”
She set the data pad down and walked to the edge of the spring, testing the water with a toe. “So. A deal. You get clean. You get some strength back. You answer my questions. And I…” She smiled, a sharp, glittering thing. “I won’t call Veronica for pickup. Not yet.”
It was a stay of execution. A negotiation in a cave. Diana was naked, weakened, and utterly disarmed. She had no lasso, no jet, no allies. All she had was her story. And Betsy Braddock, the nude, psychic mercenary, was offering to listen.
Diana’s eyes fell to the steaming, inviting water. The ache in her muscles screamed for it. The shame on her skin begged to be washed away.
Slowly, painfully, she uncapped the canteen and drank. The water was tepid, perfect. It felt like life itself flowing back into her. She drank until it was empty.
Then, without looking at Betsy, she slid off the rock and into the hot spring. The heat was an immediate, profound relief. It enveloped her, soothing the burns, easing the deep muscular tremors. She submerged herself, letting the water swallow her whole for a moment, wishing it could erase the last few hours.
When she surfaced, pushing her hair back, she found Betsy sitting on the rock, legs crossed, watching her. The data pad was in her lap, but she wasn’t looking at it. Her katana, Diana now saw, was leaned against the wall within easy reach. A professional, always.
The silence stretched, filled only by the soft lap of water and the distant drip of mineral-rich cave moisture. Diana watched the purple-haired woman over the steam, her Amazon senses cataloging details. The relaxed posture was deceptive; every muscle in Betsy’s frame was coiled, ready. Her eyes held a calculating curiosity that felt more invasive than any stare.
“Feel like talking yet?” Betsy finally asked, tapping her data pad. “Or do you need to prune a bit more?”
“What is there to say?” Diana’s voice echoed softly off the cavern walls. She kept her body low in the water, not from modesty, but from a need for the obscuring steam. “You saw the ruins. You felt the psychic backlash. You have your data.”
“I saw the aftermath. I’m interested in the before.” Betsy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “The deliberate choice. The self-binding. That wasn’t an accident. That was a ritual.”
Diana looked away, at the glowing lichen. “It was a mistake.”
“Bullshit.” The word was sharp, but not unkind. “You’re many things, Princess, but clumsy isn’t one of them. You sought that out. You wanted what the temple gave you.” She paused, her head tilting. “The question is why. And what it felt like.”
The directness was a lance. Diana closed her eyes, the memory of the electric violation surging back—the pain, the helplessness, the shocking, unwelcome crest of pleasure. Her skin flushed beneath the water. “It is not a simple thing to explain.”
“Try.” Betsy’s command was gentle, but immovable.
Diana took a long breath. The hot water soothed her physical wounds, but the confession would open others. “There was… a captivity. Before. It was not like this. It was clinical. Precise. It was designed to break my will, to study my reactions.” She opened her eyes, meeting Betsy’s violet gaze. “It did not break me. But it… changed the shape of my wants. It left a hollow space that craves a specific kind of pressure. A surrender I can control.”
Betsy listened, her expression unreadable. “So you recreated it. With rope and magic rocks.”
“I sought understanding.” Diana’s fist clenched underwater. “I sought to own the feeling. To see if, in choosing it myself, I could strip it of its power.”
“And did you?”
A bitter laugh escaped Diana. “No. It stripped me. Further.” She gestured vaguely to her own body, shimmering beneath the surface. “This curse… Circe meant it as humiliation. An eternal exposure. But in that frame, in those ropes, the nudity became… irrelevant. It was just truth. Now, out here, it is a costume I cannot remove. A statement I did not choose to make.”
Betsy was silent for a long moment, processing. Then, a slow smile touched her lips. “Fascinating.” She stood up abruptly, her nude form a pale statue against the dark rock. “You know, I’ve read Cale’s files on Circe’s work. Theoretical thaumaturgical binding. Never seen a live case study.”
She walked to her pack and rummaged, pulling out a small, silken bundle. It was a pair of simple, black lace underwear, part of her own changed outfit. She held them up, the delicate material incongruous in the primal cave. “The curse is specific, yeah? Any artificial covering directly on the skin…”
Diana watched, a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach. “Braddock, don’t.”
“Scientific inquiry,” Betsy said, her tone playful but her eyes utterly serious. She stepped to the edge of the spring. “For the record.”
With a swift, deliberate motion, she leaned down and slid the lace underwear over Diana’s foot, up her ankle, and began to draw them up her calf.
Diana recoiled, but not fast enough. The instant the fabric made contact with her skin, a bright, heatless flame erupted in a silent, blue flash. The lace blackened, then disintegrated into a shower of minute, sparkling ashes that vanished before they hit the water. The entire process took less than a second. Only a faint, floral scent of ozone remained.
Betsy jerked her hand back, staring at her empty fingers. Her fascination was absolute, her lips parted in genuine wonder. “Incredible,” she breathed. “Complete molecular unraveling. Not burning. Un-making.” She looked from her hand to Diana, her gaze intense. “No chafing. No tan lines. No laundry. Ever.”
She straightened up, a new, speculative light in her eyes. “You know, most people would call that a curse.” She turned and walked slowly back to her seat on the rock, the movement deliberately fluid, the curve of her naked back and the sway of her ass emphasized in the cavern’s low light. It wasn’t a seductive display; it was a statement of fact, a comparison of two different kinds of exposure.
She sat, crossing her legs, her expression turning inward. “A permanent state of… unadorned truth. No armor, no disguise. Just the raw material.” She glanced at her own folded leotard, then back at Diana. “There’s a brutal elegance to it. A freedom.”
A freedom.” Betsy’s voice was quiet, almost to herself. She stood and walked to her gear, the moment of contemplation shattering into practical motion. “Time’s up, Princess. Out you get.”
Diana, her muscles finally obeying, rose from the spring. Water streamed from her in sheets, puddling on the smooth rock. The steam curled off her skin in the cooler cave air. She felt cleaner, the grime and ozone scent washed away, but also more vulnerable, the various marks and burns now stark on her pale skin.
Betsy didn’t watch her. She was busy. She stepped into her purple leotard with the efficiency of a soldier armoring up, pulling the tight material over her hips and shoulders. The fabric gleamed under the lichen-light. She fastened her red sash with a sharp tug, then pulled on her gloves, each finger snug. Finally, she slid her feet into the thigh-high boots, the sound of the zippers sharp in the cavern.
She looked like a different person. The casual, observational nude was gone, replaced by a polished mercenary. The leotard left her arms and shoulders bare, showcasing defined muscle, but it was clearly a uniform. A weapon in itself.
“There’s a towel in the pack,” Betsy said, not looking up as she attached her katana’s scabbard to her sash. Her tone was all business now.
Diana found the small, rough towel and began drying herself. The coarse fabric scraped over her sensitive skin, a grounding, mundane sensation. She worked methodically, squeezing water from her dark hair, wiping the moisture from her neck, her arms, her legs. Each pass of the towel was a reclamation of her own surface, a tactile mapping of her body outside of the spring’s embrace.
She was almost dry when the psychic force hit her.
It wasn’t an attack. It was an imposition. Invisible, vice-like bands of violet energy snapped around her wrists, yanking them behind her back with irresistible, smooth force. Diana gasped, instinctively fighting the pull, her bare feet scrambling for purchase on the wet rock.
“Easy,” Betsy said, her voice calm. She approached, holding a pair of sleek, gunmetal grey manacles. They hummed with a low, proprietary frequency. “These are Cale’s design. Beta version. Suppresses mythic and biological enhanced metabolisms. Should work on Amazonian divinity, in theory.”
“Braddock, don’t—” Diana strained, her back muscles cording. The psychic bands held her utterly fast, a perfect, unyielding restraint.
“Have to,” Betsy interrupted, her focus entirely on the locks. She brought the first manacle close to Diana’s wrist. The hum grew sharper, making Diana’s teeth ache. “A deal requires leverage. And you have none.”
The cold metal clicked shut.
A wave of debilitating weakness washed through Diana, so profound her knees buckled. It felt like the temple’s drain, but deeper, more systemic. The constant, humming song of her own strength—a background radiation she’d lived with for centuries—simply stopped. The manacles on her other wrist completed the effect. She was held up only by Betsy’s psychic bands, her body suddenly a heavy, foreign weight.
Betsy released the psychic energy. Diana stumbled, but didn’t fall. She could stand. She could walk. But the sensation was horrifying. She felt muted, hollowed out, a sculpture of flesh with the vital wiring severed. She tested the manacles. They were linked by a short, rigid bar, forcing her palms outward in a reverse prayer. There was no give.
“Good,” Betsy said, taking a step back to assess her work. Her eyes were critical, professional. “Gait seems stable. Neural dampening is active. Excellent.”
She moved to her pack and pulled out a slim communicator. She powered it on, the screen casting a blue glow on her sharp features. This was it. The call to Cale. The end of the strange interlude in the cave. Diana’s mind raced, but it was a dull, sluggish thing, stripped of its heroic certainty. She was just a woman in chains, waiting.
Betsy’s thumb hovered over the call button. She looked from the screen to Diana, who stood naked and manacled in the center of the cave, breathing hard, her blue eyes wide with a storm of defeat and fury.
A slow smile spread across Betsy’s face. She lowered the communicator.
“Change of plan,” she said, her voice dropping back into that conversational, almost lighthearted tone. “Veronica’s a bitch. And, frankly, watching you try to process your own kinks is more interesting than any paycheck.”
Diana stared, uncomprehending. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the bounty is void.” Betsy tossed the communicator onto the rock beside her pack. It clattered, a stark sound. “I’m not her delivery service. But I didn’t just waste a week tracking you across an ocean for my health.”
She took a step closer, her boot heels clicking on the stone. “So here’s my deal. A new job. For both of us.”
“I am not for hire,” Diana said, the words automatic, but they sounded feeble even to her.
“Not as a weapon. As a subject.” Betsy circled her, her gaze analytical. “You want to understand this… thing inside you. This need for surrender. You tried DIY with a cursed temple and nearly fried your central nervous system. Not smart.”
She stopped in front of Diana again. “I have resources. Safe houses. Tech that can simulate pressures, stresses, scenarios without the risk of actual dismemberment. I have a professional interest in the psychology of power exchange, especially in powered individuals. It’s useful data.”
Diana’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a hollow cage. “You want to study me.”
“I want to help you study yourself,” Betsy corrected. “Controlled environment. Scientific method. No evil sorceresses, no rogue scientists. Just observation and analysis. You get to explore your parameters safely. I get a front-row seat to the most unique case study in existential conditioning ever. We both get answers.”
She gestured with a gloved hand at Diana’s manacled form. “This? This is just proof of concept. You’re contained. You’re safe. Even from yourself. That hollow feeling you’re fighting? Let’s map it. Let’s define its edges.”
The proposition was absurd. Monstrous. Yet, it slithered into the cracks the temple’s lightning had made. Safe. Controlled. Observation. The words were a perverse echo of Dejah’s offer, but without the looming threat of Aresia. This was colder. Cleaner.
“And if I refuse?” Diana asked, her voice low.
Betsy shrugged one bare shoulder. “Then I put you back in the psychic bubble, walk you out of here, and reactivate the bounty call. You spend the rest of your very long life as a slideshow in Cale’s lab, or you break out and go back to stumbling blindly from one traumatic revelation to the next.” She leaned in slightly. “Your choice, Princess. But it is a choice. That’s the deal.”
The cave was silent save for the drip of water. Diana looked at her hands, trapped in the cold, power-dampening metal. She felt the void where her strength had been. She remembered the exquisite, terrifying clarity of the ropes, the X-frame, the lightning—the moments when the noise in her soul stopped.
A choice. Collaboration with a mercenary. An exploration of her deepest shame, guided by a woman who saw it not as a flaw, but as a fascinating equation.
She met Betsy’s violet eyes.