#315 - Remove
Jingle.
"We've been at this for months and we're nowhere," Fitzroy yells. There's a murmur of agreement around the table. Magneto's lips thin in disapproval. "This is not what the Hellfire Club does. This is not what we are!"
"Oh?" Moonstone asks, warm, deliberate amusement. She's sprawled elegantly in her chair in a swirl of gold and cream. It's impossible not to see her as a sexual being, even when you know you're being manipulated. She uses everything as weapon, even herself. "And what are we?"
"You," Fitzroy snaps, "are Osborn's lapdog."
Moonstone throws her head back when she laughs.
"Gentleman," says Sat-Yr-9. Her chair has been decorated with delicate white roses that do nothing but make her look washed out, unfocused, bleeding away at the edges. "We're all adults here. I believe we can discuss this like adults. As with everything, this is merely a question of business practicality. Are we profiting?"
Shaw snorts, but says nothing.
"Wealth can not be solely measured by its dollar value," Magneto says evenly. Moonstone smiles at him from across the table. He looks back until she grins and looks away.
"All we're doing is making pointless enemies while on a futile quest to, to what?" Fitzroy demands. "Resurrect an alien menace that has tried to kill us all before and will do it again the moment it gets a chance? Ruling a world of garbage is pointless!"
"Is that an issue?" Moonstone asks, with apparently genuine interest. "Look what Shi'ar technology has done for Xavier's lot. What did they call her -- 'Danger'?"
"Can sentience really be so readily erased, while allowing us to retain this properties we need, when technology and biology are so inextricably entwined?" Sat-Yr-9 asks. "There are risks and risks."
"There is no risk," Magneto says. "We are-"
"What about the Black Queen?" Fitzroy asks, cutting across him.
Shaw sighs. "What about Selene?"
"Do you have a death wish?"
"Do you?" Moonstone asks, sitting forward to rest her chin on her hands and smile at Fitzroy with polite curiosity.
"The 'Red King' is--"
"Late for a meeting, apparently. Gentlemen. Ladies. Moonstone." They grin at each other as he walks around the table. The fire bends towards him, though the room grows somehow colder. Sat-Yr-9's roses blemish and wilt and she pulls her furs tighter around her, glaring. "What are we talking about today, hmm? The future and the salvation of the world? The price of beans? Twilight?" He smiles at Fitzroy. "You're a Team Edward man, I can tell."
"You don't fool me," Fitzroy says.
"Don't I."
"Remember Paris? You think I don't know what's under that skin of yours? You think--"
"Has anyone told you, Mister Fitzroy," the Red King asks, "that you literally have no soul? That explains a lot, I think. No compassion. No creativity. No sense."
There's a silence, no less deep for all its brevity, and then Fitzroy roars, lunging with his hands outstretched. They strike nothing. The replying hand passes through his armour as if it wasn't there, through skin with rather more resistance; still, he does not have time to scream. The others -- save Moonstone with her polarising lenses -- throw arms up to block out the searing light that twists and curls and spirals into the Red King, until there is nothing in his hand but bone-dust and metal scraps.
When they hit the table, they jingle like little bells, like loose change.
"Ladies," the Red King says. "Gentlemen." He smiles. "Moonstone."
She smirks at his back until he's long since left the room.
"We've been at this for months and we're nowhere," Fitzroy yells. There's a murmur of agreement around the table. Magneto's lips thin in disapproval. "This is not what the Hellfire Club does. This is not what we are!"
"Oh?" Moonstone asks, warm, deliberate amusement. She's sprawled elegantly in her chair in a swirl of gold and cream. It's impossible not to see her as a sexual being, even when you know you're being manipulated. She uses everything as weapon, even herself. "And what are we?"
"You," Fitzroy snaps, "are Osborn's lapdog."
Moonstone throws her head back when she laughs.
"Gentleman," says Sat-Yr-9. Her chair has been decorated with delicate white roses that do nothing but make her look washed out, unfocused, bleeding away at the edges. "We're all adults here. I believe we can discuss this like adults. As with everything, this is merely a question of business practicality. Are we profiting?"
Shaw snorts, but says nothing.
"Wealth can not be solely measured by its dollar value," Magneto says evenly. Moonstone smiles at him from across the table. He looks back until she grins and looks away.
"All we're doing is making pointless enemies while on a futile quest to, to what?" Fitzroy demands. "Resurrect an alien menace that has tried to kill us all before and will do it again the moment it gets a chance? Ruling a world of garbage is pointless!"
"Is that an issue?" Moonstone asks, with apparently genuine interest. "Look what Shi'ar technology has done for Xavier's lot. What did they call her -- 'Danger'?"
"Can sentience really be so readily erased, while allowing us to retain this properties we need, when technology and biology are so inextricably entwined?" Sat-Yr-9 asks. "There are risks and risks."
"There is no risk," Magneto says. "We are-"
"What about the Black Queen?" Fitzroy asks, cutting across him.
Shaw sighs. "What about Selene?"
"Do you have a death wish?"
"Do you?" Moonstone asks, sitting forward to rest her chin on her hands and smile at Fitzroy with polite curiosity.
"The 'Red King' is--"
"Late for a meeting, apparently. Gentlemen. Ladies. Moonstone." They grin at each other as he walks around the table. The fire bends towards him, though the room grows somehow colder. Sat-Yr-9's roses blemish and wilt and she pulls her furs tighter around her, glaring. "What are we talking about today, hmm? The future and the salvation of the world? The price of beans? Twilight?" He smiles at Fitzroy. "You're a Team Edward man, I can tell."
"You don't fool me," Fitzroy says.
"Don't I."
"Remember Paris? You think I don't know what's under that skin of yours? You think--"
"Has anyone told you, Mister Fitzroy," the Red King asks, "that you literally have no soul? That explains a lot, I think. No compassion. No creativity. No sense."
There's a silence, no less deep for all its brevity, and then Fitzroy roars, lunging with his hands outstretched. They strike nothing. The replying hand passes through his armour as if it wasn't there, through skin with rather more resistance; still, he does not have time to scream. The others -- save Moonstone with her polarising lenses -- throw arms up to block out the searing light that twists and curls and spirals into the Red King, until there is nothing in his hand but bone-dust and metal scraps.
When they hit the table, they jingle like little bells, like loose change.
"Ladies," the Red King says. "Gentlemen." He smiles. "Moonstone."
She smirks at his back until he's long since left the room.