It'd been tough pulling the wool over Irene's eyes. She was a precognitive after all, and one of the few on the planet who kept such concise records. That said, Raven had learnt not everything was seen by all precogs. On her sixty-eighth birthday, she finally achieved what most thought impossible: they planned a party and Irene arrived at the penthouse — care of Emma Frost — with no knowledge of what was about to happen.
Raven led her out of the elevator and into the foyer where Victor stood looking clean and smelling of aftershave, accompanied by none other than Wolverine himself. They took Irene's coat and hat, and walked either side of her as if the Queen were about to enter Parliament.
When she stepped inside and felt just how large the crowd was, Irene smiled but instinctively gripped Victor's arm just a little tighter. Her remaining senses could only process so much input at a time. They all soon began a heart-warming rendition of 'Happy Birthday', and Irene could only stand and listen as the chorus of voices sang.
Irene waited till Raven was by her side once more before taking her arm and leaning against her just a little. "Thank you," she said loudly once the singing stopped and she could hear Raven's breathing. A dose of humour never went astray at a time like this, she told herself, and she needed it with such a crowd around her. "Now if someone could please turn on the lights?"