12/18 - Scott
I don't know why I did that. Boredom doesn't seem a sufficient excuse.
Oh well. It should be amusing. I wonder if I should string him along some, or take the immediate gratification of crushing him.
Then again, there is the danger of becoming entangled in my own string.
12/18/2007
Logfile from Emma.
=XS= Scott's Room - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
This room is everything you'd expect from Scott Summers. The room is bland, clean, and organized. The walls are a shade of baby blue, with a darker blue border around the top of the walls. A window gives him a few outside of the mansion. A desk rests against one wall with a laptop, and various papers on it. Above the desk is an inspirational quote on top of an Alaskan wildlife scene. The covers and sheets of his bed are folded with a military-like precision, the color matching that of the rooms border. He has a wood bureau as well, with a few extra pairs of his sunglasses sitting on the top.
Christmas parties are supposed to be fun, festive, family filled times. At least among the plebes. Those with more refined tastes and resources throw parties that are invariably dirtier. Gossip, womanizing, social and corporate sabotage. Ah, Christmas. What a wonderful time of year! It is more than late when the Frost limo pulls out of the Anderson estate and turns down the winding road that leads to the main one through Salem Center, then on to New York City. Sprawling estates dot the landscape, including one belonging to Charles Xavier. Emma snuggles down into her warm fur coat and lets a tendril of power casually sideswipe the mansion as they pass it's backside. What's this? No active shields. My, my... Among the sleeping minds of innocent children, she idly seeks a more familiar one. Hello, Scott.
Scott is asleep, given the hour and the amount of things that have gone on, not at all that surprising. While Scott is asleep, he hasn't yet reached the dream state so his mind isn't a mess of confusing images quite yet, though that isn't all that far off.
Late evening, frustratingly tedious smoozing with mental infants, and a long ride home ahead of her. Emma is primed for mischief. Telepathic fingers tickle at his thoughts, stirring them up slightly before sinking into the morass of his mind, pulling along long-established anchors and pins, though finding some slight alterations to the make up. Time is to blame for so many woes. Gold weaves into the red tinge of his near-dreams.
Images of loves, both current and past, as well as plenty of work and frustrations flit in and out of view. A large asteroid spinning in space, with any number of unrealistic movie-style devices to try to stop it. Emma even comes up in the flit of images through his mind as his brain tries to come to grips with the events that always hide from Scott during his waking hours.
The red recedes into an explosion of colors rarely seen since childhood. Remembered colors, in the manner of remembered emotions. Emma kicks off her shoes and curls into a corner of the limo, closing her eyes as she deepens the link with guilty pleasure. She notes the track of images, some familiar, some not so, then sticks a finger out to slow the whirl of faces. Blonde hair streams like a golden banner, and through it's blaze, blue eyes glitter.
Confusion at first from the infusion of color into his more recent perceptions, the ruby tinge of power and glass gone for the moments. Emma's image though causes a myriad of emotions to tumble through in quick succession, affection, sadness, anger, lust, and betrayal. As such they all tumble into one confusing mess, even in a dream.
Emma laughs, and her image laughs with her. She slides to the asteroid, examining the information available to him and finding it only somewhat more complete than her own. A question forms, and is voiced in manipulations of his thoughts and emotions. << If you could save only one... >>
A shudder at the thought, at the reality of that, the images in his mind switching quickly from one to the other, as if he were flipping through pictures as he tries to choose who lives or dies. A feeling of anguish and despair, of helplessness, suffuses Scott's mind as his mind tries to settle on who would live and who would die. Ultimately the mass of images, both friends, ex-lovers, and strangers narrows down just to Nate. What kind of man would he be, his feelings argue, if he saved someone else over his own son?
A son who will die a horrible, agonizing death as soon as he hit puberty? Pah. There's no father of the year award for that. Emma spins, taking his mind with her, pulling his thoughts down into a heated, faceless embrace as she sinks lower. << Talk to me, Scott. I've missed that... >> she purrs in suggestive undertones.
<< Hasn't seemed like it.. >> is the snapped reply. His sleeping mind not nearly as polite or controlled as it is when he's awake. Manners, it seems, are not as effective when asleep as when awake. The memories flash through the man's mind of their last meetings, neither of which could be called pleasant on either part.
<< You didn't expect me to fall into your arms, did you? >> Amusement ruffles his memories as an avatar of Emma pulled from his own memories--laughing, dressed in an oversized t-shirt belonging to him, and curled up on a bed-- forms. It shakes its head and lifts a brow in a familiar, arch look. << Is that what you would have wanted? You don't even know /what/ you want. >>
<< I would have at least liked to have been treated less like some rival business person beneath your notice. >> is the simple response, even as the image that she brings forth causes other emotions. Nostalgia for when they were together, affection, even lust. << I've often wondered if you really know what you want, Emma. >>
<< I wanted you. >> It is a simple reply, given with an almost indifferent air. Her image rolls onto its back and lifts a foot to examine it. << You are such a typical male, Scott Summers. You refuse to see what is in front of your face. >>
<< And what is it that you expect me to see? >> Scott replies testily. << You wanted me to be happy with things the way they were, even though every bit of my conscience was screaming bloody murder against it. Not to mention the flirting. >> Scott adds, his uncovered eyes in the dream world not avoiding looking at her as she moves.
<< Your /conscience/? >> Emma's voice changes, divesting itself of the pretense of speaking to him in his own thoughts. << And you wonder why I treat you as I do. You don't even see that you treat me exactly the same way. As if I am some aberration in your life needing, /wanting/ excising. >> Her form rolls up onto its knees, and she stands, balancing on the bed. The t-shirt lengthens and flows to pool around her feet. Another memory, this one of glamour and coldness. She glares down at him.
<< What do you expect of me, Emma? I can't change who I am. I tried that, remember, and all it did is made both of us miserable. >> Scott replies, his own avatar in the dream unchanging on his part. He doesn't have the inclination, or particularly the power at the moment, to force such a change. << Ever think that I act toward you the way I do lately because of how you've treated me? That vicious little cycle. >>
Emma's eyes narrow and a tiny, tight smile forms on her lips. << I didn't ask you to change, darling. I asked you to consider it. >> She steps forward, the red-tinged darkness around them pushing back as she slides off the bed to bring herself to eye level (metaphorically) with him. She lifts her arms to encircle his neck, arms resting on his shoulder, hands loose and toying with his hair. << Vicious? Yes, isn't it though? Especially when we both know you still want me. >> Her powers wrap him up in cold arms as her avatar bends her neck to whisper in his ear, << You want me. You can't stop thinking of me. You dream of me. Next time you see me, and you will try to do so, the desire to have me again will drive you to your knees in supplication. >> She ghosts a kiss to his cheek and adds, << Let's see you try to excise /that/ from your conscience. >>
<< A part of me does still want you, Emma. I just don't have any desire to end up broken again, >> is Scott's reply, eyes on her before she moves closer to him to wrap her arms around him, his skin flushing in the dream at the feel of her lips on his cheek, his desire soaring after she forcefully rewires his brain.
<< I guess we'll have to learn to play gently with our toys then. Or not. >> She answers his soaring desire with a sweat-drenched dream that she pats into place before carefully extracting herself before her vehicle carries her beyond the limits of her power.
The man jerks awake in the bed in the mansion, covered with sweat and the physical aftermath of such a dream. "Emma?" he murmurs to the empty room, tossing and turning for a few moments before he fades back into a sleep that is not dreamless, as Emma is once more in it, though without the participation of the real Emma controlling it.
Scott gets a midnight visitor!
Oh well. It should be amusing. I wonder if I should string him along some, or take the immediate gratification of crushing him.
Then again, there is the danger of becoming entangled in my own string.
12/18/2007
Logfile from Emma.
=XS= Scott's Room - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
This room is everything you'd expect from Scott Summers. The room is bland, clean, and organized. The walls are a shade of baby blue, with a darker blue border around the top of the walls. A window gives him a few outside of the mansion. A desk rests against one wall with a laptop, and various papers on it. Above the desk is an inspirational quote on top of an Alaskan wildlife scene. The covers and sheets of his bed are folded with a military-like precision, the color matching that of the rooms border. He has a wood bureau as well, with a few extra pairs of his sunglasses sitting on the top.
Christmas parties are supposed to be fun, festive, family filled times. At least among the plebes. Those with more refined tastes and resources throw parties that are invariably dirtier. Gossip, womanizing, social and corporate sabotage. Ah, Christmas. What a wonderful time of year! It is more than late when the Frost limo pulls out of the Anderson estate and turns down the winding road that leads to the main one through Salem Center, then on to New York City. Sprawling estates dot the landscape, including one belonging to Charles Xavier. Emma snuggles down into her warm fur coat and lets a tendril of power casually sideswipe the mansion as they pass it's backside. What's this? No active shields. My, my... Among the sleeping minds of innocent children, she idly seeks a more familiar one. Hello, Scott.
Scott is asleep, given the hour and the amount of things that have gone on, not at all that surprising. While Scott is asleep, he hasn't yet reached the dream state so his mind isn't a mess of confusing images quite yet, though that isn't all that far off.
Late evening, frustratingly tedious smoozing with mental infants, and a long ride home ahead of her. Emma is primed for mischief. Telepathic fingers tickle at his thoughts, stirring them up slightly before sinking into the morass of his mind, pulling along long-established anchors and pins, though finding some slight alterations to the make up. Time is to blame for so many woes. Gold weaves into the red tinge of his near-dreams.
Images of loves, both current and past, as well as plenty of work and frustrations flit in and out of view. A large asteroid spinning in space, with any number of unrealistic movie-style devices to try to stop it. Emma even comes up in the flit of images through his mind as his brain tries to come to grips with the events that always hide from Scott during his waking hours.
The red recedes into an explosion of colors rarely seen since childhood. Remembered colors, in the manner of remembered emotions. Emma kicks off her shoes and curls into a corner of the limo, closing her eyes as she deepens the link with guilty pleasure. She notes the track of images, some familiar, some not so, then sticks a finger out to slow the whirl of faces. Blonde hair streams like a golden banner, and through it's blaze, blue eyes glitter.
Confusion at first from the infusion of color into his more recent perceptions, the ruby tinge of power and glass gone for the moments. Emma's image though causes a myriad of emotions to tumble through in quick succession, affection, sadness, anger, lust, and betrayal. As such they all tumble into one confusing mess, even in a dream.
Emma laughs, and her image laughs with her. She slides to the asteroid, examining the information available to him and finding it only somewhat more complete than her own. A question forms, and is voiced in manipulations of his thoughts and emotions. << If you could save only one... >>
A shudder at the thought, at the reality of that, the images in his mind switching quickly from one to the other, as if he were flipping through pictures as he tries to choose who lives or dies. A feeling of anguish and despair, of helplessness, suffuses Scott's mind as his mind tries to settle on who would live and who would die. Ultimately the mass of images, both friends, ex-lovers, and strangers narrows down just to Nate. What kind of man would he be, his feelings argue, if he saved someone else over his own son?
A son who will die a horrible, agonizing death as soon as he hit puberty? Pah. There's no father of the year award for that. Emma spins, taking his mind with her, pulling his thoughts down into a heated, faceless embrace as she sinks lower. << Talk to me, Scott. I've missed that... >> she purrs in suggestive undertones.
<< Hasn't seemed like it.. >> is the snapped reply. His sleeping mind not nearly as polite or controlled as it is when he's awake. Manners, it seems, are not as effective when asleep as when awake. The memories flash through the man's mind of their last meetings, neither of which could be called pleasant on either part.
<< You didn't expect me to fall into your arms, did you? >> Amusement ruffles his memories as an avatar of Emma pulled from his own memories--laughing, dressed in an oversized t-shirt belonging to him, and curled up on a bed-- forms. It shakes its head and lifts a brow in a familiar, arch look. << Is that what you would have wanted? You don't even know /what/ you want. >>
<< I would have at least liked to have been treated less like some rival business person beneath your notice. >> is the simple response, even as the image that she brings forth causes other emotions. Nostalgia for when they were together, affection, even lust. << I've often wondered if you really know what you want, Emma. >>
<< I wanted you. >> It is a simple reply, given with an almost indifferent air. Her image rolls onto its back and lifts a foot to examine it. << You are such a typical male, Scott Summers. You refuse to see what is in front of your face. >>
<< And what is it that you expect me to see? >> Scott replies testily. << You wanted me to be happy with things the way they were, even though every bit of my conscience was screaming bloody murder against it. Not to mention the flirting. >> Scott adds, his uncovered eyes in the dream world not avoiding looking at her as she moves.
<< Your /conscience/? >> Emma's voice changes, divesting itself of the pretense of speaking to him in his own thoughts. << And you wonder why I treat you as I do. You don't even see that you treat me exactly the same way. As if I am some aberration in your life needing, /wanting/ excising. >> Her form rolls up onto its knees, and she stands, balancing on the bed. The t-shirt lengthens and flows to pool around her feet. Another memory, this one of glamour and coldness. She glares down at him.
<< What do you expect of me, Emma? I can't change who I am. I tried that, remember, and all it did is made both of us miserable. >> Scott replies, his own avatar in the dream unchanging on his part. He doesn't have the inclination, or particularly the power at the moment, to force such a change. << Ever think that I act toward you the way I do lately because of how you've treated me? That vicious little cycle. >>
Emma's eyes narrow and a tiny, tight smile forms on her lips. << I didn't ask you to change, darling. I asked you to consider it. >> She steps forward, the red-tinged darkness around them pushing back as she slides off the bed to bring herself to eye level (metaphorically) with him. She lifts her arms to encircle his neck, arms resting on his shoulder, hands loose and toying with his hair. << Vicious? Yes, isn't it though? Especially when we both know you still want me. >> Her powers wrap him up in cold arms as her avatar bends her neck to whisper in his ear, << You want me. You can't stop thinking of me. You dream of me. Next time you see me, and you will try to do so, the desire to have me again will drive you to your knees in supplication. >> She ghosts a kiss to his cheek and adds, << Let's see you try to excise /that/ from your conscience. >>
<< A part of me does still want you, Emma. I just don't have any desire to end up broken again, >> is Scott's reply, eyes on her before she moves closer to him to wrap her arms around him, his skin flushing in the dream at the feel of her lips on his cheek, his desire soaring after she forcefully rewires his brain.
<< I guess we'll have to learn to play gently with our toys then. Or not. >> She answers his soaring desire with a sweat-drenched dream that she pats into place before carefully extracting herself before her vehicle carries her beyond the limits of her power.
The man jerks awake in the bed in the mansion, covered with sweat and the physical aftermath of such a dream. "Emma?" he murmurs to the empty room, tossing and turning for a few moments before he fades back into a sleep that is not dreamless, as Emma is once more in it, though without the participation of the real Emma controlling it.
Scott gets a midnight visitor!