AU Log Dump
7/16/2007
In the belly of Hellfire, the Pawns guard their charges in their close quarters with their partial telepathic dampeners and matched expressions of boredom. Percy checks in on them on the way up from a stint in the watchpost on Monday (in between meetings at his /other/ job) and then redirects, up the stairs and down the hall to the White Queen's office. He is dressed for the business day in tailored grey, with the splash of sea-foam green for color in his dress shirt, and a matte tie in green-checked deeper blue for the finish.
He speaks briefly with the attractive woman presently on duty outside Emma's door, and then knocks twice to announce himself without being announced. There is a flat black DVD case in his off hand.
As if there is a need to announce himself. Warmth and affection curl tightly around the familiar mental signature as it closes and grows stronger, so that by the time Emma is aware of his approach, it is already identified. << Come in, darling. >> And what is Emma Frost, business woman, beauty, and bitch doing in the middle of a Monday afternoon? Sitting in the middle of her office floor with a collage of pictures spread out around her and Almas' head tucked over one crossed leg. She looks up and rolls her eyes. The gesture is clear in a make-up free face and with hair pulled back into a messy clip. "Did you know that Mason is a cross-dresser?"
"Good heavens," Percy says, making a face as he crosses the threshhold. He drags the door shut behind him and ambles over to Emma's floor to crouch down and peer down at her collage, upside-down. (The collage is upside-down from his perspective. He is right side up. Honestly.) "Is he really? I think some people should simply not be allowed to wear drag."
Emma tips her face up and nods. "The pawn we had following him snapped these. I think we will be able to count on him in any future business arrangements, don't you?" Almas lifts her head (still puppyish, but showing the thin regality of the breed) and thumps her tail against other photos in greeting for Percy.
Wrinkling his nose slightly, Percy nods and then rises from his crouch, since it's a little hard on the knees. "I think that's his balls nicely gripped, yes, considering. Especially if his wife doesn't know," he says cheerfully. He turns out the black DVD case in his left hand. "This is the surveillance tape on our lost little lambs. Most of it is pretty dull. I've broken it up into chapters and labeled them, anyway. Except chapter nine." He doesn't quite shudder over chapter nine, but the potential is certainly there.
"You didn't label chapter nine?" Emma asks innocently, ever so bland in face and tone as she looks at the case without reaching for it.
"Nope!" Percy keeps holding it out. It's plastic. Kind of shiny! "I didn't." << At your own risk, m'lady. >>
Emma's curiosity is piqued. She eyes the case, then eyes Percy. "Put it in the DVD player." Almas is stroked absentmindedly.
Percy salutes jauntily, snaps open the case, and drifts over to the DVD player to slip the disc delicately in place. "You asked," he warns. So ominous.
Emma just oogles him for a moment, and then the DVD menu cues up and she tips her head for him to select the appropriate, titleless scene.
The chapters on the menu as he flips through them are labeled things like: Sabitha arrives; Wang's check-up; conversation 1; period of silence; Eisenberg check-up; et cetera, et cetera. The ninth chapter is not labeled. It is just blank, apart from the nine. Percy starts it, and takes a step back from the player, setting down the remote he retrieved and folding his arms over his chest. It begins innocuously, with the participants stirring from sleep, but it doesn't stay that way very long; the, er, action is partially obscured by blankets, but it is unquestionably Bahir and Sabitha having sex.
Emma blinks. Then squints, and blinks again. "Are they..." She stops and looks at Percy for confirmation. "Are they really?"
Percy waves a hand at the screen with a disgruntled expression. "It would seem so!" he says. He has had enough of the baffling horrors of chapter nine, apparently, since he is not looking at the screen.
She looks back to the screen, then climbs to her feet and pads closer to the screen to peer and squint closer! Almas jumps to her feet as well when she is dislodged, and trots over to Percy. Hi! "Not very well..." is Emma's inspired critique of the scene.
"Yes, well, he was probably a virgin when it started," Percy remarks, apparently to his own manicure.
Emma slants a glance at Percy and asks dryly, "When /this/ started? Tsk."
Percy makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. "I have to admit I wasn't really watching for technique," he says. He points at the screen -- again, without looking at it. "It's just /bizarre/."
Emma turns back to the screen and tilts her head. "Too bad. You could give him pointers." Finally, though, the screen goes blank with an electronic hiss, and she turns toward him and steps close to his shoulder. "Poor duckling. How is our copy handling it?"
"Bahir's not a copy," Percy feels the need to point out immediately, his gaze sliding away from her only to drag back. He clears his throat. "He's baffled, mostly. I mean, it is pretty bizarre." He rubs at an eye with one finger. "And unsettling. All things considered I think he's managing all right."
Touchy! She drapes a hand over his shoulder and rests her chin on it. "Of course, dearest. You're right," she soothes, stretches to kiss his cheek, then pulls away. "Anything of use on the surveillance aside from bizarre porn?"
"I went over most of it. I think that if they did anything interesting, it was--" Percy lifts two fingers and taps lightly at one temple. "Mostly, they were just appallingly glad to be in each other's company." He makes a face, like he is trying to swallow his tongue.
Emma's nose wrinkles and she returns to her circle of photos of the cross dressing Club member and stares down at the rotund gentleman dress as a particularly voluptuous meter maid. "And the other... duplicate? Any idea why she headed to Xavier's? Or where she is now?"
Scrubbing his knuckles along the line of his jaw, Percy shakes his head. "I could only guess," he says. "Nothing explicit from either of them that could give us a clue to her whereabouts. I get the impression that she is a sort of protector for them," he adds, shifting his hand such that it runs over the back of his neck instead. "But as to specifics--"
"As to specifics, I am the best source," Emma supplies sourly. "I don't doubt she stands what protection she can. I suspect that as we have two of her people here, she will return here sooner or later." She lowers herself into a squat and pats the floor to call Percy's present to her, gathering the soft body close to her.
Percy watches Emma huggling the dog with a little twitch of a smile, dark lashes falling low over his eyes. "You always did look after your own," he says lightly.
Emma turns her head and looks up, baring her cheek to the dog who takes it as an appropriate place to display affection. Her eye squints, but she she doesn't push Almas away. "Fealty works both ways," she says simply, then rocks back to fall on her rear and kick her legs out. "It is harder to dismiss it all with more of them." She sighs.
"That much is certain," Percy says, rocking back on one heel as he runs his fingertips through the dark waves of his hair. "The question remains what we do about them. We can't keep them locked in that room indefinitely."
"I'm still in favor of killing them. From what I've seen, I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a favor." The words and tone are oddly cold in conjunction with the affectionate petting of the animal.
Percy shakes his head, raising his eyebrows. "Short of finding a way to destroy their whole nightmare of a world, I don't think we can call it a favor," he says dryly. "But we can't let them loose out there. There's already a Sabitha, dead. There's already a live Bahir. What we need is to find a way to send them back where they came from. And never think about them, ever again."
Emma doesn't press the matter. Instead she follows Percy's topic change like a dancer following her lead. "Have the pawns searched the area they seem to be coming through?"
"The pawns have been spread a little thin," Percy demurs, lacing his fingers together before him and letting thumbs tap. "The preliminary reports I've gotten is that Tompkins Square Park has a weird discoloration in the air that Fever postulates is the doorway we're looking for, but I haven't sent a team to poke through it yet." << A little afraid of what we might find. >> "I might just keep someone stationed there to keep an eye on what else comes through, if anything does."
"Good idea. We should consider putting a team together though in the near future. Just to see before it starts attracting other attention." Fear is irrelevant. Information is supreme.
Rubbing a fingertip along the side of his nose, Percy nods. "Pawns with good defensive capability," he says. "Fever, Zenith--" It's only the briefest hesitation. "Maybe Bahir for recon."
Emma settles Almas into a pretty cuddle and returns Percy's nod. "I trust your judgment." The title goes unspoken, but it's presence is still felt.
"I wouldn't want them through for very long," says the motherhennish Rook. "It sounds like it can be pretty nasty over there, and I'm not sure what we'd have to gain with an extended mission."
"We won't know unless we see. Do whatever you feel necessary, but just set it up, Percy. If it's a machine, or a mutant controlling this... /thing/, we should know about it."
"I'll get them out there shortly," Percy says, nodding. He draws his heels together as he straightens out of his slight slouch. "I'll just meet with Fever and see if she has recommendations for the team's composition. She works more closely training these people and she might have valuable input."
"Good. She's done good work, this Fever of yours. You should reward her Percy. Set something up for that as well." Her attention drifts for a moment, then is pulled back long enough to offer a belated and lazy "You too. Good work with Purgatory. Tell me how I can reward you?" Old habit finds life again in the playful suggestiveness of her question.
Percy gives her the lazy curl of a smile and slowly shakes his head. "I'd ask for a pony, but I think you might get me one," he says. "Find me an afternoon off and we'll take in a movie. I'll braid your hair and we'll call that reward. As for Fever ... I'm sure we can think of something."
"Does she like her hair braided?" Emma asks archly, then laughs and turns back to her odd scrapbooking project. << Deal, dearest. I'll let you know when I have one for you. >>
"She's all with the gel and the spikes. Like Adel. I bet they could do each other's hair," Percy says, rolling his eyes. << Do you think the King would like a pony? >>
<< I think the King would prefer an ass so he could draw parallels between it and us to his heart's content, >> she replies in a distracted murmur, bending to pick up a photo and study it closer. Bemusement and attachment usher him gently out the door.
7.16.07 - Percy shows Emma porn! He's so sweet.
7/21/2007
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= White Queen's Suite - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
Dark black hair and golden olive skin contrast warmly with the cool white of satin sheets. Adel seems to have forgotten his shirt, or maybe he just hasn't changed into it yet. His trousers, at least, are in place: a smooth slide of linen. He sits cross-legged with a brush in one hand and a hairtie caught in his teeth. The brush slides through silky strands of gold, and he watches their ends flip past with distracted fascination. He prefers blondes. Of blondes, he prefers Emma! << --so we turned our Jason loose, and except for that on attempt by the girl to get out, the others haven't tried anything. >>
Emma curls her fingers through the plush of the carpet and leans her head back against the side of the bed. Cream and gold and pink peek out in naughty glimpses through the gaps in the white silk of the robe thrown lazily around her. Blue is lost under her closed lids. She stretches one leg out and points her toes at the door, the other remains bent and upright. << He's not going to leave us alone. He's like an addict, >> she foretells easily, her mental voice cool and clear as a mountain stream refreshed by winter run off.
<< Well, yes. That's Jason. Bahir can just beat him again. >> Adel draws the brush back through her hair again, fingers curling into the weight of it and scratching lightly back over her scalp from her temple. << He resented being asked to do that, but not too awfully, and he did it anyway. I think he's settled, >> he adds of his brother. << Jason hasn't settled, though. He is lonely and bored. A dangerous combination in anyone, and especially in him. >>
Emma pulls her hand out of the carpeting and lifts it up and behind her to land on Adel's leg. Her fingers seek the hem of his pants and curl under to tickle bared skin. Her hair smells of fresia. << He /has/ been rather compliant lately, hasn't he. Good. >> She tips her face up and cracks her eyes open to look up at Adel with a faint smile for the attention, and the wry observation that << We tried to settle Jason once. I don't think another attempt would be wise. If he interferes with us again, we will neutralize him. He's no longer under Erik's protection. >>
Adel's toes curl in reflexive response to her touch at his ankle, lips twitching in a smile that nearly sends the hairtie falling loose. He bites it into place again, meeting her gaze with a rueful shrug. << Or Mystique's. Lone agent. A bit of an awful thought, considering. >> The brush runs through her hair again, and then he lazily begins to section it for braiding purposes. << Other people have come through that thing in the park. One of our old neighbors ran into not-her-boyfriend and got pretty freaked out. It's going to catch attention with the police and media, if it hasn't already. >>
Emma's fingers settle, her touch cool against his skin. << Xavier's has turned into quite a little hostel as well from what I understand. But there is still no indication how it is /happening/. >> The other hand joins its mate and stretched further along his leg, generally being a distraction.
<< I don't know that it matters how. The pawns-- >> Fever, Zenith, Bahir, his thoughts identify. << --didn't get far at all before finding their Jason and bringing him back. I don't know if anyone knows. >> Adel thumbs the ends of her hair, frowning thoughtfully. << Doesn't matter. It is. If too many people over there figure out about it, we might get a rush of people fleeing that reality for us. Refugees. Mutants, too. I'm sure they'd be lost and alone, in need of someone to help them figure out where to go--. >> Enough said.
<< Pointless if the public at large finds out about it. We'll have so many government agencies pack in around it it'll be like alphabet soup, >> she counters, tipping her chin down again and frowning thoughtfully at her big toe.
Adel smiles, plaiting the golden hair lazily. << Might catch a few lost souls before then. >> Agreement washes beneath that: lots of soup.
<< What about the ones we have? Do they /wish/ to return? >> Her other hand moves from his ankle, traveling up his leg in an easy stretch. << Are they more trouble than they're worth? >>
<< Yes, >> Adel says immediately, unease rippling across his mind. He highlights the phantom ache of connection not /quite/ made, the wrong Bahir held at a remove. << And Sabitha? If we let her wait too long, she'll burn this place down again. >>
<< She goes back, >> Emma states flatly, her tone brooking no argument on that subject, even as she winds the ghost of a comforting kiss around the ache of a connection severed, but not.
Snorting softly, Adel does not argue. He leans in against her with a fond ripple of affection, fingers brushing down the line of her neck. << Have you felt her? The other Emma? >>
<< Sometimes. It's like... deja vu, only not. >> His touch raises a film of goosebumps. << I think she's more powerful, >> she admits, hanging her arms around his knees. << More focused, at least. There is something odd about her shielding patterns. >>
<< You should invite her for tea. >> Adel shifts and resettles slightly before going back to braiding. << What's so weird about her shields? >>
<< They're not mine. Not entirely. >> She attempts to convey the sensation of difference she has felt to him, but it is a vague and subjective matter.
Murmuring a sound of agreement in his throat, Adel is silent as he finishes the braid and pulls the hairtie out to secure the end with a wrap and twist. << He's wasteful. >> Bahir, the wrong one: << He hasn't learned to use them as we have -- or maybe it's just the lost of his brother that makes his touch so rough. >>
Emma pulls the tail from his hands and feels down the sleek line with a purr of approval. She rolls over and up onto her knees, crawling back into place, this time facing him and planting her hands on either side of his hips. << He is quite different, isn't he? >> she asks, an amused and cutting smile flickering on her lips. << I never would have pictured Sabitha and Bahir together in /this/ world. >>
Adel's skin crawls. << Bizarre. >> Now that his lips are free from needing to hold the hairtie, he /can/ talk. He even does so: "It's hard to--" << --think about-- >> "--really grasp the things that make him so different. I like my Bahir better."
Emma /could/ say 'me too,' but she doesn't. It doesn't really matter. "I hazard to guess that your Bahir prefers this situation as well." She looks down into his lap and goes quiet for a moment, then glances back up with an arched brow and smirk. << I admit I prefer it as well. >>
Adel smirks back, and reaches up to brush lightly at feathery strands that frame her features where a few have slipped from the braid. "Good. Then we all prefer it. We should try to find the other Emma. I doubt she'd ruin things for you here on purpose, but she could make things very uncomfortable if she missteps."
"Of course. You're right." Emma leverages against the bed to stand up, and her robe wafterfalls into place. "I'll order Percy to set the pawns on her and bring her in." Unease squirms and pulses.
"Make sure he tells them to be polite," Adel says, watching her stand with a brush of fingers against her hip. He slips out and up after her, pried reluctantly from comfort. "She's still you, sort of. We ought to show her courtesy."
Emma's lips twitch, running counter to the grave dignity she assumes in saying, "I'll extend my counterpart's appreciation on her behalf."
"No doubt." Adel leans against the end of the bed and gives Emma a quick grin. "If you want to go finish getting ready, I'll dig up my shirt and then we can go do lunch. Sound fair?"
Her fingers tickle a path from navel to collarbone, then slide up his neck to catch on his chin and drag it down for a kiss. She breathes, "Quite," against his lips and steps away to follow her Bishop's eminently wise suggestion.
7.21.07-There is braiding in here.
7/22/2007
=WES= Kensico Cemetery - Westchester
The largest cemetery in New York State, Kensico boasts 461 acres of attentively maintained landscaping. Different sections of the grounds have been established to cater to the needs of Westchester's various communities. The Community Mausoleum offers above-ground burials, Sharon Gardens is a section dedicated to those who follow the Jewish faith, and an Angel's Rest area more poignantly memorializes the burial of infants. Visitors to the cemetery can come admire the lushly green lawns, exquisite statuary, classic architecture and decorative trees. Nature enthusiasts will find 36 different types of trees on the grounds, from the official state tree of New York -- the sugar maple -- to the more ornamental and rare, like the ginkgo tree. Above all, Kensico Cemetery is a serene, beautiful place where both the living and the dead can find a quiet spot to rest.
There are a few things common to any telepath, this world, next world, or alternate world, and one of them is the need, occasionally, for quiet. Something else common, though not restricted to telepaths, is the fact that cemeteries are quiet. Put the two together, and you have the beginnings of a lovely rumor fit for background filler in Potter-World. Rumors have begun circulating about the cemetery being haunted, but being a cemetery, most people dismiss them, and take a different route on their Sunday evening constitutionals. That's just fine with the cause of the rumors who has taken up residence of sorts in one of the nicer mausoleums. She has a roof over her head and a quiet place to think,a nd the locals get a little more ambiance in exchange.
Rossi is not a local, though he provides his own sort of ambiance, big city style. Gone are the turtlenecks and jackets used to hide the marks on his throat; the blue T-shirt -- NYPD, it reads inevitably in faded words on his breast -- and black jeans he wears bares his neck and the long, bared mangle of road rash on one arm. The bruises have faded to a lovesome greenish yellow; the scabs on hands, arms and face have taken on the dark color that precedes removal. Idle in his gait, restless in his mind, he roams from one stone to the other, reading inscriptions and comparing them to an inner log book of statistical probabilities. A natural death. An unnatural one. A name familiar enough to give pause.
He stops to regard the Xavier Mausoleum, and blinks.
It is rather ugly, all things told. Built in an era when the bigger and uglier, the better, it is impressive. Probably had it's own private caretaker too at one point. The door, rarely used and difficult to open or close when it is, is ajar.
Curiosity is inevitable, when a police detective is involved, and though more recent caution has lent its tempering touch to its nudge -- Rossi crosses the small paved walkway to the door and peers in, green eyes inquisitive in their fatigue-bruised hollows. "Yo," he calls, listening to the echoes of his own deep baritone. "Anybody awake in there?" Obligation nudges at the forebrain, murmuring a conscientious soliloquy. He owes Chuck. Should make sure everything's okay.
No would be if he'd quit disturbing the dead. It is quiet and clean. Maybe a little cleaner than might be expected. Cherubs wave cheerily at him from their engraved shelf covering...things, and outside, a woman watches the tableaux in dark amusement. Nothing to see inside unless you enter further and turn the corner. Gravel crunches under the woman's boots though, loudly and intentionally. Her hair is darker than her this-world counterparts, and there is nothing white about her, except the skin exposed at hands and neck. Jeans, boots, a t-shirt, ponytail. Just another visitor to the dead?
Just another. Chris straightens in the doorway, fishing in his pocket for his keys and the small, finger-sized pocket torch linked to their chain. A twist of the handle and it is on, throwing its unhelpful glimmer over carvings already dimly lit by sunlight and reflections. It is the sound of footsteps that turns his attention over his shoulder. It is recognition that makes blood recede from his face -- a quicksilver, prickly jab of fear pushes up the heartbeat's even tempo -- before equilibrium restores itself. Startled resentment wings towards Emma. "/You/," says Chris. His eyebrows lower. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Emma stops, and the snarky amusement at the grave-robber antics of Rossi fades into irritation and exasperation. She doesn't answer him, and there is no answering recognition in expression or body language. She shifts a plastic bag hanging heavily from one hand to the other and lifts the now freed hand in a gesture of dismissal. "None of your business. Why don't you just... go away or something."
The pale glitter of gaze drops to the plastic bag, then returns to Emma's face and does not, oh, does /not/ pause on the curves in between (nor does the mind betrayingly flash back to memories of naked familiarity with-- no, not at /all/, and thoughts of Ororo flicker in a salutatory reminder of priorities.) "Kegger in the graveyard?" Chris asks, a bite to the question. He twists his flashlight off and shoves it in his pocket, his free hand dropping to the mausoleum door. Belated shields build a scaffold around his thoughts. Fuck. Telepath. "Wouldn't peg that as your style."
Emma blinks in surprise. Yes, telepath, and Rossi really isn't to her usual tastes. "And of course, you know /all/ about my style." The curves are still there, though less pronounced and sharper than in his memory. (Smooth, soft, rounded, full--No, not at all.)
The detective's brow furrows deeper; the glittering edge of hostility faces somewhat, replaced by a nudge of that driving curiosity that is one of his most fatal traits. Inconsistency. "Page Six," he says, his gaze dropping as recognition of difference prods belatedly. He is practiced at the glance that is not quite a glance; the quick double-check barely registers, swallowed whole and squirreled away to be chewed on and considered. Chris sets both hands to the door and begins to pull, dragging the heavy entrance shut. "Read all the papers."
Emma really doesn't care, and boredom curls around the edges of her irritation and wariness. "I'm sure you have. Look, it's not happening again, so just go away. I probably /was/ drunk. Had to have been." The last is a murmur of disgusted self-justification.
Eyes sharpen, directed towards the slow scrape of the mausoleum door rattling across the stone floor. For a change, for a miracle, his mind gives little away, tucked safe behind those Jean and Charles-built flatscan walls. "Right," Chris says, as the door closes with a solid thump. He scowls at the lock, dusts off his hands, and turns away. Back towards the path. "Shit happens. Good to see you," he lies, voice flat, and begins heading out towards the ranks of tombstones as yet unexplored. "Stay chill."
Until he falls asleep, right there. In the middle of the graveyard. Consciousness stolen, he crumples up on a patch of grass. Emma snorts and climbs the steps to reverse his closure of door. Hours later, in the cool of the evening, automatic sprinklers come to life and douse him, waking him up. Of Emma, there is no sign.
7.22.07 - Well met by gravesite!
7/24/2007
=NYC= Lobby - Frost Enterprises - Financial District
The lobby of the building takes more than its name from its owner. Cool, blue-veined marble spreads across the floor and wraps up the sides of supportive pillars and functional countertops. The walls hold a hint of grey that only contrasts with the white crown molding that cover the seams of floor, wall, and ceiling, where contemporary recessed lighting sinks deep.
Two figures slip through a rift in dimension, emerging into a space both familiar and otherwise.
(Two figures? Or is it three?)
They are world-weary, battle-hardened and scarred, grim and silent. Their leaders have been lost to death, and treachery, and latest to simple disappearance. The Pawn standing surreptitious sentinel in the park is too familiar to lost Hellions to go unregarded and unremarked, but they don't ask questions; there's too many gone missing, and between chemical sedation and extreme strength, one little spider doesn't have a chance. They leave him under a tree.
They don't waste time talking. Their conference is brief, communication as much a thing of eye contact, of scent and hands touching, as it is of sparsely exchanged words. It is late afternoon and staying out from cover for long isn't safe in the bright clarity of the hot summer day. They keep to back alleys and stay as quiet as they can. They're used to keeping hidden. They move swiftly south, towards Stark Plaza and the long familiar, long fallen.
Oliver wears ripped jeans that conform to the long lines of his legs, his lean body still muscular but rangier and more drawn than it once was. He's himself, but rougher, sharper. His hair is unruly and black, a little longer than it should be and kept short haphazardly. His skin is darker than cream, and scarred. His shirt is dull grey, if it might've been another color once, and open at the chest; he wears a bandolier strapped over it, ammunition for the semi-automatic he carries like a dull metal extension of his arm.
Following beside him and half a step behind, Sal is long and painfully lean, hunger and danger having honed what once was into what now is; rather than sleek and graceful, there is a harshness to the planes and angles of face and body. Her hair has been hacked short, a rough cap of unkempt chestnut curls that don't quite match the battered brown of shirt and boots; jeans are unremarkable, tattered and frayed though not as badly as Oliver's. She plays backup, with an easy familiarity from one who once led -- a second bandolier is strapped across her chest, though she carries no semi -- her gun is a pistol strapped to her hip. She doesn't wield it, though -- instead she carries a coarsely wrapped bundle with all the care in the world.
It is just as hot elsewhere in the City, though this world has an embarrassment of energy to keep air conditioners running, and the insides of buildings clean and cool. Shiny chrome elevator doors open onto the lobby of Frost Enterprises, and a group of people looking every bit the role of V.I.P.s step out with Emma Frost at their helm.
They are met by a baffling and unwelcome sight.
Weapon in hand and at the ready, Oliver shoves open the doors of the lobby to what he remembers as once his base of operations, expecting he has no idea what, but not the sleek panoply of clean, and cool, and bright. His dark eyes sharp with calculation despite the haze of confusion, he skims the room. He looks grimy and threatening and unkempt, and if blood will out, it doesm't seem to here.
His gaze centers on Emma, and though his face doesn't light up, as grim as ever save for the lightening of his eyes, his mindscape does. No shots fire.
Sal's hand strays for her gun, the slightest breath of movement and echoing thought that's stilled in a moment of confused recognition. The hand drops, only to raise again as protective shield over the top of what's held in arms.
There is another mind there, bright and unwary as her parents' are not -- secure in mother's arms, lulled to complacency by her father's mutation. /Content/.
Every face in the lobby turns as one toward the incoming terrorists. That is what they /must/ be. Across the lobby, a guard jerks to attention as well. He doesn't stand frozen by the surrealness of the scene, though. His hand slaps a button, sounding a silent alarm throughout the building. Elsewhere, more security responds to the call.
They are, for the moment, unidentified by any save one. That one was rather slow as well, it must be admitted. Emma reacts to the thrill of recognition, startling and throwing up a mental wall between their thoughts. What? Who? ... No...
"Sal," Oliver says, his gaze barely flicking towards her, saccadic. "Breathe." It is a practiced order with a practiced response. Seconds after he gives it, enough time for her to get lungful of air and hold it until the worst has past her by, he blasts a controlled volley of chemical sedation into the air, further slowing the reactions of the people around. Those in the lobby close enough to get the first whiff of the concentrated blast get visibly sleepy. It isn't enough to reach the far corners of the room, given the circulation of the air conditioned air, but maybe he feels more secure about it anyway. He wets his lips and takes a step forward, lowering his weapon. Peaceful-like. As a Hellion, he looks to Emma Frost.
As the first wave hits, the blanket-wrapped bundle in Sal's arms goes limp, a small and grimy hand sliding out from underneath its shape-disguising protection. The woman herself exhales slowly, casting a brief measuring eye toward her companion before she too steps forward. Her hand raises slowly, the motion carefully non-threatening as she pushes the blanket down, and away, revealing grimy, hunger-thin face of the child sleeping against her shoulder.
As Hellion, he should have been disbanded over a year ago. Emma is affected as well, loosing a bit of the head start that understanding had given her. She steps forward, a sleep-walker with the mental punch of dynamite. That power plows into and over their minds, picking up bits and pieces of memory along with intent culled from the rubble. << What do you want? >> she asks, the question reverberating in their minds.
<< Safety protection base home >> may as well all be one thought, blurred together under the force of that plow. The memory of home is far removed, but the shell of this place hollowed out and used as a base of operations, orders from Percy, orders from Jason, death, mayhem, chaos. Above all there is the need as father to protect the babe in Sal's arms. Oliver wets his lips and looks around -- at the receptionist, who has nodded off under his sway; at Emma's flock of VIPs; and then back at the woman herself. "We're not here to harm anyone," he says aloud, and his baritone voice is pitched low, geared to soothe those already soothed by his own soporifics. His power is not his brother's, but his control is, comparatively, exquisite: training versus raw power, a familiar conundrum.
Orders, death, hunger -- it threads through every memory, the pinch of it strongest in flashes of herself, round-bellied but gaunt-faced in pregnancy; sweat-soaked delivery, terror-filled nights. << diana >> whisper her thoughts, even as she turns the child slightly away. The force of Emma's probe rocks her, disturbs the child; she shakes her head before adding her voice to Oliver's, pitched to soothe as well. "Hush," she says, falling into an unconscious back and forth rocking rhythm.
Emma stills and shakes her head. Seconds. Only seconds left before stupidity and circumstance tear this encounter out of control. She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead and picks her thoughts out of the pheromone cloud. She rocks back and points at the elevator, now emptied and hanging open behind her. "In there. /Now/."
Oliver gives Sal a quick nod and then turns and strides swiftly across the lobby, through blurry, sleepy people, and into the elevator. He narrows a directed blast of nullifiers for his own soporifics at Emma as he passes, as he's had to do often enough for Mastermind, and then takes up a position inside the elevator, hunkering down with the butt of his gun resting lightly on the floor.
Sal follows, long-legged stride eating up the space between their position and the elevator. Once inside the elevator, she lowers the grubby child to the floor, then takes up a position in front of her. She starts to fold her arms across her chest, then drops one hand to her side instead -- it stops the little one from moving around her, though wide, curious eyes peer from around her mother's fingers.
Frost Enterprises has the best in electronic security. It allows rooms to be shut off at will, elevators to be locked down, and chaos contained. In this case, it is contained to the lobby. One set of doors at the back burst open, and armed professionals pour through the doorway. Emma spins into the elevator doors and explodes a mental << FALSE ALARM >> into the thoughts of each individual there before diving into the mind of the previously lone lobby guard, forcing him to unlock the elevator commands. She steps back and slaps the button for a random floor, and uses the time to fumble for the card that hangs from her wrist and swipe it, sending the car hurtling skywards.
Oliver watches Emma from the floor with narrow-eyed but ill-disguised hope. Surely she knows what to do. Er. Right?
Sal's distrust of Emma is familiar; the spark of hope-over-fear is not. Behind, the little girl moves sideways on vaguely unsteady legs, a hand reaching out toward Oliver. "Daddy?" is quiet, little-girl high and clear. The gun is ignored, too familiar to be anything but. The look she gives Emma is wide-eyed, and she scoots a little bit closer to her father.
The intercom crackles to life. "Miss Frost?" a half- frightened, half-hopeful male voice asks. Emma looks down at the intercom, then back at the other occupants of the car before pressing the response button. "Yes, Harold. I'm quite alright. Apologize to everyone for the scare. My... guests won't bother anyone." She stops and hesitates before adding, "Let them know I would also prefer they keep things quiet." They arrive at the top an instant later, and the doors slide open on the executive floor of Frost Enterprises. Emma stays where she is, though her gaze falls on the child. "You can't stay here. You know that, don't you?"
Oliver takes hold of his daughter's small, fine-boned hand in his much larger, rougher one, and looks up at Emma over the dark-haired tot's head. He doesn't move to regain his feet from his crouch, remaining more on the level with the girl. "It's all right, Diana," he says, with the firm warmth of a man used to telling this lie. "We're going to be fine." He raises dark, thick brows. He doesn't say: << Where can we stay? There is no safe anything anymore-->> It is the gnaw of grim despair that slows his reply, as dark eyes lower to the floor. "We're missing some people," he says. "We think they went here."
"If there's anyting you can tell us...?" Sal does not plead; << help us help her nowhere safe >> is unbidden, squashed even as she moves to rest her hand on Oliver's shoulder. Her eyes mirror the shadows in his voice, though hers is firm. "It's where makes the most sense." On the level with Oliver, Diana's mind sparks bright; the lie is familiar, and brings comfort in a world where only these two people are constant.
"You don't get it, do you?" Emma gestures outside the elevator and toward the large set of double doors bearing her name. 'Emma Frost, CEO.' She exits the elevator without waiting to see if they follow. << I'm not /her/. I'm not /yours/. This isn't your world. This isn't /their/ world. You're already here. >> She stops at her door and swings it open for them. << And you are still a prat here, >> she adds with dark humor to Oliver. Underneath it though, weary acknowledgement of a debt. Not her promise, but still her responsibility. "Amanda, cancel my appointments, and track down Percy or Adel. Their's are the only calls I'll take."
Oliver follows, rising slowly to his feet and shepherding Diana silently along. He glances to Sal, and for her he lets disappointment and fear show, in a glimpse of rue that etches itself on features both rugged and worn. << Then where are they--? >> At the sound of his brother's name, he goes still, his heartbeat quickening and the catch of his breath indisguisable. He starts to repeat it, and breaks off before he's finished uttering the first syllable.
"Percy?" Sal's voice is hushed, uncomprehending as she slips her hand into Oliver's; Diana, sensitive to shifts of parental mood, tips her grubby face up to Sal's. "Mama?" Small girl, small vocabulary. "It's okay, baby girl," she offers, narrowed eyes focused on Emma's. << what is this? >> whispers ghost-soft, << what deception is this? >> on a wave of overprotectiveness toward Oliver.
Emma turns back at the quicksilver flash of emotions Percy's name provokes, and she narrows her eyes for a moment before realizing. "Oh." She closes the door behind her, behind them both, and leans back against the door. "Percival. I told you you both were here. So is he. It... your world. Your memories. They didn't happen here. We'd like to keep it that way." a significant glance at the walking ammunition clips.
Oliver turns his head away, looking at neither of them for a moment as he swallows. "Percy's alive," he says unsteadily. His processing speed is not so good. He rubs at an eye with the first two fingers of his left hand, shaking his head. "And I. I'm alive here, too." He looks up at Emma, his lower lip caught in his teeth. Silently he asks, << Diana? >> and it means daughter - future - life.
Sal is not so slow -- her breath catches and she shoots a look, a /look/ at Oliver, at her husband. Then back to Emma, her daughter's name on her lips as it is in Oliver's mind. "Diana?"
Emma returns his look and shakes her head, then shoot a cattily amused look at Sal. The dislike is mutual. "You recently gave up the ranks of bachelorhood to settle down with a sweet little thing by the name of Asliegh, I believe. You're family has not been blessed yet by a bouncy bundle of joy. To my knowledge."
Oliver looks a little shellacked. "Ashleigh," he repeats. It's not a name he's let into his consciousness since Magneto's massacre. He reaches a little stupidly for Sal's hand, for her support (and perhaps to give his own).
As Oliver stilled at the sound of Percy's name, so Sal stills for Ashleigh's; her breath hitches, and she half-turns. "No Diana." She doesn't repeat the name, /that/ name, /her/ name, but stares somewhat stupidly at Oliver. Then down at the girl. "...no."
"He seems quite happy. And you are a very respectable business woman," Emma continues sweetly. Emma is, perhaps, not the nicest or most comforting person in the world. Or she's just plain old spiteful. The girl is looked at, hanging out behind her mother's knees. "She is sweet," she murmurs, then looks across the room. "I'm not sure how to sort this all out, but until we figure things out, I can give you a place to stay." She looks back at them. "You're safe. For now."
Oliver moistens his lips and swallows, dark eyes bearing a suspiciously damp glint as he blinks away and looks to his wife. "For now," he echoes, and takes a step back to ruffle rough fingers through Diana's loose dark curls. He doesn't exactly thank Emma -- he's still pretty shellacked; but he does say, "Whether you're you or not," which is a little abstruse, but, well. "I knew you would help."
Sal can't speak; she looks from Oliver to Diana to Emma back to Diana -- the girl is her focus, and she draws her closer while taking an uncocious step toward what fragile security Oliver offers. Finally, she's able to offer a whispered, not-quite broken, "Thank you."
"There are refreshments," she gestures vaguely toward the minibar area. "Make yourself comfortable. It'll be a while bfore we can arrange something. In the meantime, I'll see if I can track Percy down?" It is a question, but she doesn't wait for the answer, instead slipping out the door, and leaning for a moment on the otherside as if she'd just escaped the lion's den.
7.24.07 - Looking for protection? On this side of the Rift?