Emma notices minds that aren't open to her as empty spots in a sea of noise, even now when she's trying to shut everyone up. Her fingers press into her temple and she sighs.
His mind isa rock to which she anchors herself as the world quiets down. And now that it was all quiet...she loses track of him. Which was fine now.
He notices it; feels it. There's light, 'acceptable' surface thoughts -- things that would be 'normal'. But even an experienced telepath like Emma might have trouble discerning that these are 'white noise' thoughts; used to keep intruders from digging too deeply.
He's noticed the touch, though; not outwardly, but his eyes flick up from the notes he was taking on the plant samples Draco got to him, and then flags a wait rat for a refill of tea.
She does. She didn't achieve that level ten psychic ability for nothing. But this place is new, strange. She isn't delving deep, just enough to check intent.
Emma looks around and eyes the rats that seem to be waiting on people with...thinly veiled shock.
There's a woman in a wheelchair at a table near the bar, both shins in plaster up to the knee. Her coffee is going cold, but it's nearly finished anyway; she's more concerned with cutting her blonde hair while her left hand is still sore.
Her thoughts mostly focus around the betrayal of a very good friend. Or rather, displacement thoughts to avoid that subject.
Ooh ooh ooh try the threat level on this one on for size.
He's sitting at the Bar, calm and quiet and drinking his second beer of the night--
--and his mind is bright and vivid with images of torture, dismemberment, and violent mayhem.
There's a tiny little smile on his face as he contemplates the memory of taking a power drill to a bound man's hands and feet, boring holes in him over and over until he let out the most delightful screams...
His memories and thoughts are disturbing and make her feel sick to her stomach. Oh, she wishes Scott were here because his arms were always the ones who caught her when she lurches.
And she's lurching now. Her fingers (unseen under her white gloves) turn white as she grips the bar tight.
It's like she's reliving the memories and it's disgusting.
It's pliers, now. Pliers, and a tall young woman who smiled and begged for more as he twisted off her fingers one by one. (Her name is Eight-Hour Chainsaw and he's very, very fond of her. He can't put words to why, exactly, but the name is part of it.)
Comments 29
Severus is like an island of calm in a sea of chaos. Quiet. Tranquil. After all, an Occulmens never lets down his guard.
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His mind isa rock to which she anchors herself as the world quiets down. And now that it was all quiet...she loses track of him. Which was fine now.
She steps up to the bar and eyes it. Dusty. :|
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He's noticed the touch, though; not outwardly, but his eyes flick up from the notes he was taking on the plant samples Draco got to him, and then flags a wait rat for a refill of tea.
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Emma looks around and eyes the rats that seem to be waiting on people with...thinly veiled shock.
What.
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Her thoughts mostly focus around the betrayal of a very good friend. Or rather, displacement thoughts to avoid that subject.
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(But the woman's thoughts of betrayal make her head turn to the side. Betrayal is integral in her own head).
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He's sitting at the Bar, calm and quiet and drinking his second beer of the night--
--and his mind is bright and vivid with images of torture, dismemberment, and violent mayhem.
There's a tiny little smile on his face as he contemplates the memory of taking a power drill to a bound man's hands and feet, boring holes in him over and over until he let out the most delightful screams...
Smirking, Chainsaw finishes his beer.
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His memories and thoughts are disturbing and make her feel sick to her stomach. Oh, she wishes Scott were here because his arms were always the ones who caught her when she lurches.
And she's lurching now. Her fingers (unseen under her white gloves) turn white as she grips the bar tight.
It's like she's reliving the memories and it's disgusting.
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Too caught up in his nostalgia.
It's pliers, now. Pliers, and a tall young woman who smiled and begged for more as he twisted off her fingers one by one. (Her name is Eight-Hour Chainsaw and he's very, very fond of her. He can't put words to why, exactly, but the name is part of it.)
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(Emma Frost has done her fair share of not pleasant things, but this is another level).
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