[ It's Scott, that much is unmistakable. Some mannerisms were constant over universes, it seemed, and Scott's posture and cadence and firmly set ruby red glasses are some of them.

He's not her Scott. But that matters little; he's a familiar one, and maybe one she'd spoken to last she was here.

She smooths down her dress - something in gold, as if to mirror his blue - and takes his hand. ]

Cyclops. You know I wouldn't let you fall - unless it was some manoeuvre you and I had come up with together.

So... a dance, yes?