9/21 - Jean, Adel
To: 'Rook'
From: 'WQ'
Re: List
I have a lead on a possible mutant with invisibility powers. Young, possibly violent, possibly manipulatable. Any interest?
Also, having dinner with our latte soon.
~E
9/21/2008
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Upper East Side - Manhattan
The cafe is small, but good, and decorated with the quiet money that befits the Upper East Side. Equidistant between Lennox Hill Hospital and the Hellfire Club, it is neutral ground with the happy addition of fresh buttered scones that North and South Korea is entirely lacking. At a table near a window sits one Jean Grey, idly watching passerby. Her mind is half-furled, screening out the most intrusive of strayed thoughts while keeping the idle watch with more metaphorical vision as well. There is a pot of tea in front of her, the cups yet unpoured.
It's as if she were /waiting/ for Emma. How positively providential, especially considering where Emma is coming from. Sunday morning is one of the quiet spots in her day, and occasionally she fills it with a trip to church. Don't gasp. There are no scorch marks on her crisp, clean white suit. There is even a hat. It's an old, established, respectable church, filled with many of the City's influential. Emma steps inside the cafe, a popular stop for many patrons after services let out, the wide brim of her hat sweeping this way and that as she determines if there is an opportunity today. Her gaze lights on Jean, and briefly, something dark and hungry and angry flares. She stuffs the reaction behind thickly blank walls, pastes a smile on her face, and winds her way to Jean's table. "Darling," she greets happily as she slides into the seat opposite Jean.
Darkness, meet light. A fine edge of flame limns Jean's thoughts at Emma's greeting, before it's hurriedly extinguished and a matching smile fished up. "Confession good for the soul?" she inquires, the skim of her mind against Emma's a mere telepathic courtesy call. "I've been ministering to the halt and the lame, and thought I ought to take a break for tea before walking on water. And I just -happened- to be in your neighbourhood."
"The East River runs right behind the clubhouse. You should start there," Emma chirps, all smiles and telepathic glitter--like the sunlight off a field of day old, undisturbed snowfall. She reaches up to pull a hatpin from the brim of the hat, and pull it free. It snags a few fine pieces of hair as it goes, but she smoothes those down quickly.
"Ah, but efforts at pollution control aside, is it -really- miraculous if one is simply stepping from garbage raft to garbage raft?" Jean wonders, with a smile warmed by a low and well-banked fire that hisses and crackles gently with her thoughts, melting at that untouched snow. "Tea?" she queries, lifting the pot and gesturing at the second of two cups and saucers before her. "Of course, if you're looking for -real- miracles, I had quite a curious one come dithering into my clinic the other day."
"Please." The snow crackles and hisses, but reinforces itself. Much like her expression, which remains fixed and unusually pleasant. She takes the indicated cup with one hand and reaches for the small jug of cream with the other. Cup set in place in front of her, she adds the ingredients for a proper cup of tea in order-- cream, four lumps of sugar, then holds the saucer and cup up for Jean to pour. "I am always looking for /real/ miracles. The touch of the Divine is such a comfort, isn't it?"
The brew is dark, piping and pleasant, bergamot scenting the air around the little table as the Earl Grey finds its new home. Jean takes her tea with similar sugar, but with no milk and a splash of lemon. "To the faithful a comfort," she muses. "To the sinner, a lash. The busy Dr. Maxwell seemed more sinner than saint, I'm afraid."
"Only saints and the faithful at this table." If Emma's smile gets any wider, it may crack her face. She stirs her tea thoughtlessly, her mind fairly pulsing with light and cheer, though it comes with a sharp edge to it--a winter day's breath stealing wind. "Maxwell? Oh!" She leans forward slightly. "You don't mean /Leonardo/?"
"The Ninja Turtle himself," Jean confirms, after a moment's shared mental image attempts to pair him with the Master Artist... and fails, in a series of amused little hiccups of thought. Ting-ting-ting goes her spoon against her teacup, tapping off excess liquid after a good stir. The continued smile earns a moment's flicker of bemusement -- did Emma just get back from shagging a priest? -- before she buries it in good tea, and further conversation. "Looked an absolute -mess- when he shambled in. I'd ask what you'd been doing to the poor man, but..."
Emma is all innocence. "Me? Oh, Jean, /dearest/. Mr. Maxwell is perfectly capable of messing and shambling about on his own." Jean's mental image is tipped over, tied up, and spun around. She takes a sip of tea and approves.
"Deception is darling on you as always, Emma," Jean practically chirps in reply, resting her elbows to each side of her teacup, and her chin pertly on folded hands, "But -really- now. It doesn't take CSI to notice fingerprints like that."
Emma's eyes widen over the rim of the teacup. She lowers the veil of lashes and sets the china down firmly on the table before flicking a mischievous glance back up. "Thank you. So nice to know you've noticed." A dimple /almost/ tucks into the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, you know I follow your work with great interest," Jean assures, with a little flick of her head that chases away strands of bright auburn hair that have escaped from the butterfly clip that struggles to contain them. She is not dressed for church, but for hospital work, and her beauty of a much more casual mode as a result. "But really, you -should- be more careful with your toys. I kept your secret all locked up in his diary still, but locks -do- break down, over time."
"You are so /sweet/, Jean," Emma trills girlishly, leaning forward again. "I will keep a closer eye on the poor dear in the future. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can keep him... subdued." The echo of Leo's thoughts from the day before whisper across the snow banks of her mind. CANDLEWAX.
Mouth opening for another sally, the whispered echo results not in speech, but in the sudden click of a lifted teacup being unceremoniously set back down on its saucer again. "Oh," says Jean, eyes alight with mingled delight and horror. "My goodness."
Emma settles back with an expression a little more natural to her, satisfaction woven through with vindictive enjoyment. She lets her eyes drop to her own teacup which is now quite calmly risen to her lips. << I must admit, given a choice between you or Elisabeth Braddock... >> She lets that statement trail off provocatively.
<< I'd be the one with more finesse. >> Jean answers in turn, with a lift of her eyebrows and a return to her tea sipping. "He really -is- ever-hopeful about you, though," she picks up the thread of spoken conversation again, perhaps just a touch -too- swift, and with just a hint more colour to her cheeks. "No doubt it will get him into trouble, as hope seems to overrule sense. He knows," she states simply. "And while he can't speak of it now, no doubt he'll burble to -someone-."
<< Well. Yes. >> Emma agrees archly, a glint in her eye that is entirely too considering given these women's history. "What would you suggest I do?" she replies in kind. "I beg of you not to suggest I /encourage/ his hopeful fantasies. That would be far too... devious of you." She presses the tip of her tongue to the bow of her upper lip, licking a spot of sugared tea away. << Besides, if I encourage that one, it will no doubt feed others. >>
"Just try and be a little more delicate next time," Jean suggests, with the mildly pained look of a woman whose neighbour's poodle has just dug up a peony plant. "I'd have thought you'd have learned from our dear friend Christopher that it's easier to not let them suspect than to keep trying to rewrite things. And Leonardo doesn't seem to have quite Chris's resilience." An image of a fine swiss cheese on a plate, anthropomorphized to have subtle qualities of Maxwell about it, is offered up for Emma's delectation.
Emma's nose wrinkles and she waves a telepathic hand through the image to disperse it. "You're right, of course," she agrees reasonably (wtf?). "I simply lost my temper with him. He is an odious little toad. It was nothing more than damage control."
There's another clink of china at this reasonable agreement. (WTF indeed!) Jean recovers more smoothly this time, and inhales a warm breath of Earl Grey ahead of another sip of it. "I wouldn't be quite so harsh in my wording, but I can sympathize with the sentiment," she offers in her own touch of reasonable. "Of course, he's also a loose cannon, getting looser. I believe I'm mostly over my desires to take what I know of you and ruin your life with it. I do hope he doesn't end up so full of holes that he does the same accidentally."
"Oh, don't worry. I will come up with a more permanent solution if that appears to be on the horizon." Emma is /so/ beneficent.
"Ah, but you see, then -I'd- have to do something about that, since I'd know enough to have to share suspicions, and it would just be so much work..." With a sigh and another toss of her hair, Jean buries the threat in a tone of vague ennui, layered like a cream torte over surface thoughts that are a mingling of warning and an odd and subtle sense of familiarity and comfort.
Emma purses her lips and curls the edges of her mouth upward. << Don't worry, darling. I'll do it in such a way that you won't have to worry about that nasty compulsion. There are enough people who have a grudge against darling Leo. >> Her voice is pitched low and knowing, the touch of telepathy wiping away the need to actually /refer/ to the totality of his history.
"So thoughtful," Jean murmurs, with a soft snort of laughter.
Emma beams brightly and insincerely as she sets her cup down. "My pleasure. Excellent tea."
"They offer packages of the house blend for sale at the cash," Jean notes, with a slight nod towards the racks of gleaming foil packages of loose leaf. "But don't let me keep you -- I'm sure you have other people besides our Lord and Savior in your daytimer."
"Oh, indeed," Emma laughs, picking up her hat and belongings, and shifting sideways so she can rise. "Delightful to see you again, Jean. We /must/ do this again soon. Come by the Club. We can play catchup." << Among other things. >> A mental image of Leo peering through the wrought iron gates as Jean and Emma enter the front door floats across, buoyed by the soft laughter of twisted pleasure. She winks down at Jean and turns to shimmy her way through the tables and out the door.
9/21/2008
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Lounge - Hellfire Clubhouse
A home within the home, this room is designed more for the comfort of the club's patrons than anything else. The usual complex wooden floors yield here to deep, wine-rich carpeting. The walls and ceiling are dark wood, the latter's beams openly visible to add to a casual feel reminiscent of the Arts and Crafts school of architecture. A couple of windows pierce the outside walls, simply but elegantly designed and held in roughened iron frames.
A number of chairs and couches scatter throughout the lounge, the brown leather of the backs and cushions a few shades darker than the polished wood of the arms and legs. Conversational clusters center on small tables, and some of the larger chairs that are on their own have very small tables equipped with reading lamps next to them. Antique floor lamps provide most of the ambient light during the quiet, dimmer times of day and night.
French doors covered with curtains matching the carpet lead into the gameroom on one wall and the rest of the north wing on another.
Early afternoon. The Clubhouse is mostly deserted, the various members drug away for attendance at social gatherings and 'family time'. Those that remain are the heathens and the rebellious. And Emma, who sweeps in under the brim of a large hat. She's looking for someone, and when her eyes fall on Adel, she finds him. She practically quivers with excitement, though you couldn't tell from looking at her. "Mr. al-Razi?" << /Darling/. >>
Heathen, Adel leans against the back of one of the leather chairs, speaking quietly to the rebellious old crank pot settled upon it. Whatever their conversation, Emma's appearance is reason enough to bring a swift conclusion to their discussion. Adel gives the older man a respectful dip of his head, and an easy smile. "--thinking about it is more than enough. Thank you for your time, sir. If you'll excuse me?" He tips his head toward Emma, and disengage with a brief clasp of hands to cross toward her. He's dressed in navy, but he has lost his suit jacket elsewhere, leaving him in dark trousers, vest, and a shirt lacking a tie, parted as it is at the collar. "Ms. Frost," he says, more formal greeting underscored by faint humor as he tips his head toward the game room. "I left a few things in there. How can I help you?" Telepathically, his question is a trifle more pointed: << Is it Christmas already? Why so excited? >>
Emma's lashes shiver down and back up in the briefest acknowledgement of protocol. She turns and heads for the game room at his indication. "I was hoping I might make use of your legal talents. I need a second pair of eyes for a reply..." She reaches up to remove hat and pin from her head as she passes through the archway. << I wanted to let you know that I have been considering your advice very deeply. And I believe I have the perfect candidate. >> The excitement bubbles up in a cacophony of mirth and scorn.
Hand over his heart, Adel dips his head. "My talents are yours." Passing through, he lifts his jacket from where it had been abandoned near the pool tables, exchanging brief nods before heading back out into the hall, and to quieter areas of the north wing, where two people walking in silence are not so obviously strange. << Already? >> Curiosity itches across his thoughts, prickling behind a simply queried, << Who? >>
Emma's thoughts grow opaque as her expression melts into one of impish irritability when they pass from easy observation. << Leonardo Maxwell. >> Her hat dangles by it's wide brim from her fingers at her side, while the other hand twirls the sharp, bejewled little hat pin.
Adel's expression goes blank as he tries to wrap his brain around the idea. His thoughts are not so blank: first, surprise, then incredulity; he shifts into thoughtful speculation. << How closely connected was he to those scientists last winter, and how widely is it known among the pawn base? >>
The surprise and incredulity is expected. The speculation isn't. She breaks her stride, a surprised blink tossed his way before rolling back into the smooth, strolling gait of their walk. << He funded them. Very little documentation, except for his ah... repeated confession of the association. Rebeckah is rather violently aware. >> A pause. << He /is/ easily manipulated. >>
Adel's lips twitch. << That's a problem. He's young, he's foolish, and he's known to have been involved in that. Won't work. >>
That's more like it. Emma can't suppress the mental snort. << But he wishes to be my King, >> she mock protests, sharing poor Leo's agonized protestations of his worth. << The idea would give Percy indigestion. >>
<< Tell him you have a position open for footstool, >> Adel suggests instead, nasty. For that matter, he briefly entertains a vision of Percy as footstool. Stomp. << Any /better/ ideas? >>
<< I just might. >> She sounds delighted with the suggestion. << No. No other ideas. Unless, >> cue a sly sideways look and an accompanying jump of suspicion. << You are angling for the position yourself? >>
Oh, look! More speculation, though hastily smothered. Adel smiles sidelong, eyebrows arching. << Hadn't considered it, >> he says, past tense entirely honest. And as for present, well -- he does not consider it long, except to go, << /That/ would /really/ give Percy indigestion. >>
Emma makes a little noise in the back of her throat and turns her attention to in front of her, suspicion banked but not extinguished. Though she does entertain the thought of Percy's reaction with some measure of fond, sadistic amusement. << Almost reason enough. >>
<< Almost. >> Adel watches Percy turn within Emma's thoughts, less sadistic than malicious in his delight. << Anyway, Maxwell aside, do you agree with the necessity? >>
<< Bring me someone worth considering, and I will let you know if I think it necessary, >> Emma retorts airly, turning a corner that empties them back out into the foyer and at the base of the stairs.
Adel reaches out to catch Emma by the elbow, touch light, but firm. He turns to face her, expression serious. << Emma, if you don't do it, someone else will. Eventually. >>
<< Then we should make every effort to find someone necessary before they do, shouldn't we? >> She pulls her elbow away from his hand and takes the first step. The hat drapes over the banister from her fingers.
Adel remains where he is, watching her with a light frustration rimming his thoughts. He exhales in short sigh, lifting his hand to run his fingers back through his hair. << Do you have any intention of setting up even a puppet? >>
Emma turns her shoulder back so she stands in profile to him, and the face she turns back is set and composed. << I don't have any intention of making a decision before we even have a prospect. Isn't it enough for you that I'm not saying no? >>
<< No. >> Adel holds her gaze. << Because you can mean no without saying it. What are your intentions? >>
<< My intentions are to continue to rule this Circle and to take and create advantages for it. If you wish me to consider a consort in order to compliment that intention, then find me one, >> she orders imperiously. With a cold frown, she turns from his gaze and starts up the stairs.
To the imperious and cold, Adel offers a flattening aspect. The openness of expression congeals, becoming more controlled. He rubs the back of his neck. << Easier done if I believed you would truly consider one, >> he says, leaning upon the banister of the stairs at the bottom, his gaze turned away in study of the hall. He does not follow.
Emma and Adel love Percy. Really.
From: 'WQ'
Re: List
I have a lead on a possible mutant with invisibility powers. Young, possibly violent, possibly manipulatable. Any interest?
Also, having dinner with our latte soon.
~E
9/21/2008
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Upper East Side - Manhattan
The cafe is small, but good, and decorated with the quiet money that befits the Upper East Side. Equidistant between Lennox Hill Hospital and the Hellfire Club, it is neutral ground with the happy addition of fresh buttered scones that North and South Korea is entirely lacking. At a table near a window sits one Jean Grey, idly watching passerby. Her mind is half-furled, screening out the most intrusive of strayed thoughts while keeping the idle watch with more metaphorical vision as well. There is a pot of tea in front of her, the cups yet unpoured.
It's as if she were /waiting/ for Emma. How positively providential, especially considering where Emma is coming from. Sunday morning is one of the quiet spots in her day, and occasionally she fills it with a trip to church. Don't gasp. There are no scorch marks on her crisp, clean white suit. There is even a hat. It's an old, established, respectable church, filled with many of the City's influential. Emma steps inside the cafe, a popular stop for many patrons after services let out, the wide brim of her hat sweeping this way and that as she determines if there is an opportunity today. Her gaze lights on Jean, and briefly, something dark and hungry and angry flares. She stuffs the reaction behind thickly blank walls, pastes a smile on her face, and winds her way to Jean's table. "Darling," she greets happily as she slides into the seat opposite Jean.
Darkness, meet light. A fine edge of flame limns Jean's thoughts at Emma's greeting, before it's hurriedly extinguished and a matching smile fished up. "Confession good for the soul?" she inquires, the skim of her mind against Emma's a mere telepathic courtesy call. "I've been ministering to the halt and the lame, and thought I ought to take a break for tea before walking on water. And I just -happened- to be in your neighbourhood."
"The East River runs right behind the clubhouse. You should start there," Emma chirps, all smiles and telepathic glitter--like the sunlight off a field of day old, undisturbed snowfall. She reaches up to pull a hatpin from the brim of the hat, and pull it free. It snags a few fine pieces of hair as it goes, but she smoothes those down quickly.
"Ah, but efforts at pollution control aside, is it -really- miraculous if one is simply stepping from garbage raft to garbage raft?" Jean wonders, with a smile warmed by a low and well-banked fire that hisses and crackles gently with her thoughts, melting at that untouched snow. "Tea?" she queries, lifting the pot and gesturing at the second of two cups and saucers before her. "Of course, if you're looking for -real- miracles, I had quite a curious one come dithering into my clinic the other day."
"Please." The snow crackles and hisses, but reinforces itself. Much like her expression, which remains fixed and unusually pleasant. She takes the indicated cup with one hand and reaches for the small jug of cream with the other. Cup set in place in front of her, she adds the ingredients for a proper cup of tea in order-- cream, four lumps of sugar, then holds the saucer and cup up for Jean to pour. "I am always looking for /real/ miracles. The touch of the Divine is such a comfort, isn't it?"
The brew is dark, piping and pleasant, bergamot scenting the air around the little table as the Earl Grey finds its new home. Jean takes her tea with similar sugar, but with no milk and a splash of lemon. "To the faithful a comfort," she muses. "To the sinner, a lash. The busy Dr. Maxwell seemed more sinner than saint, I'm afraid."
"Only saints and the faithful at this table." If Emma's smile gets any wider, it may crack her face. She stirs her tea thoughtlessly, her mind fairly pulsing with light and cheer, though it comes with a sharp edge to it--a winter day's breath stealing wind. "Maxwell? Oh!" She leans forward slightly. "You don't mean /Leonardo/?"
"The Ninja Turtle himself," Jean confirms, after a moment's shared mental image attempts to pair him with the Master Artist... and fails, in a series of amused little hiccups of thought. Ting-ting-ting goes her spoon against her teacup, tapping off excess liquid after a good stir. The continued smile earns a moment's flicker of bemusement -- did Emma just get back from shagging a priest? -- before she buries it in good tea, and further conversation. "Looked an absolute -mess- when he shambled in. I'd ask what you'd been doing to the poor man, but..."
Emma is all innocence. "Me? Oh, Jean, /dearest/. Mr. Maxwell is perfectly capable of messing and shambling about on his own." Jean's mental image is tipped over, tied up, and spun around. She takes a sip of tea and approves.
"Deception is darling on you as always, Emma," Jean practically chirps in reply, resting her elbows to each side of her teacup, and her chin pertly on folded hands, "But -really- now. It doesn't take CSI to notice fingerprints like that."
Emma's eyes widen over the rim of the teacup. She lowers the veil of lashes and sets the china down firmly on the table before flicking a mischievous glance back up. "Thank you. So nice to know you've noticed." A dimple /almost/ tucks into the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, you know I follow your work with great interest," Jean assures, with a little flick of her head that chases away strands of bright auburn hair that have escaped from the butterfly clip that struggles to contain them. She is not dressed for church, but for hospital work, and her beauty of a much more casual mode as a result. "But really, you -should- be more careful with your toys. I kept your secret all locked up in his diary still, but locks -do- break down, over time."
"You are so /sweet/, Jean," Emma trills girlishly, leaning forward again. "I will keep a closer eye on the poor dear in the future. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can keep him... subdued." The echo of Leo's thoughts from the day before whisper across the snow banks of her mind. CANDLEWAX.
Mouth opening for another sally, the whispered echo results not in speech, but in the sudden click of a lifted teacup being unceremoniously set back down on its saucer again. "Oh," says Jean, eyes alight with mingled delight and horror. "My goodness."
Emma settles back with an expression a little more natural to her, satisfaction woven through with vindictive enjoyment. She lets her eyes drop to her own teacup which is now quite calmly risen to her lips. << I must admit, given a choice between you or Elisabeth Braddock... >> She lets that statement trail off provocatively.
<< I'd be the one with more finesse. >> Jean answers in turn, with a lift of her eyebrows and a return to her tea sipping. "He really -is- ever-hopeful about you, though," she picks up the thread of spoken conversation again, perhaps just a touch -too- swift, and with just a hint more colour to her cheeks. "No doubt it will get him into trouble, as hope seems to overrule sense. He knows," she states simply. "And while he can't speak of it now, no doubt he'll burble to -someone-."
<< Well. Yes. >> Emma agrees archly, a glint in her eye that is entirely too considering given these women's history. "What would you suggest I do?" she replies in kind. "I beg of you not to suggest I /encourage/ his hopeful fantasies. That would be far too... devious of you." She presses the tip of her tongue to the bow of her upper lip, licking a spot of sugared tea away. << Besides, if I encourage that one, it will no doubt feed others. >>
"Just try and be a little more delicate next time," Jean suggests, with the mildly pained look of a woman whose neighbour's poodle has just dug up a peony plant. "I'd have thought you'd have learned from our dear friend Christopher that it's easier to not let them suspect than to keep trying to rewrite things. And Leonardo doesn't seem to have quite Chris's resilience." An image of a fine swiss cheese on a plate, anthropomorphized to have subtle qualities of Maxwell about it, is offered up for Emma's delectation.
Emma's nose wrinkles and she waves a telepathic hand through the image to disperse it. "You're right, of course," she agrees reasonably (wtf?). "I simply lost my temper with him. He is an odious little toad. It was nothing more than damage control."
There's another clink of china at this reasonable agreement. (WTF indeed!) Jean recovers more smoothly this time, and inhales a warm breath of Earl Grey ahead of another sip of it. "I wouldn't be quite so harsh in my wording, but I can sympathize with the sentiment," she offers in her own touch of reasonable. "Of course, he's also a loose cannon, getting looser. I believe I'm mostly over my desires to take what I know of you and ruin your life with it. I do hope he doesn't end up so full of holes that he does the same accidentally."
"Oh, don't worry. I will come up with a more permanent solution if that appears to be on the horizon." Emma is /so/ beneficent.
"Ah, but you see, then -I'd- have to do something about that, since I'd know enough to have to share suspicions, and it would just be so much work..." With a sigh and another toss of her hair, Jean buries the threat in a tone of vague ennui, layered like a cream torte over surface thoughts that are a mingling of warning and an odd and subtle sense of familiarity and comfort.
Emma purses her lips and curls the edges of her mouth upward. << Don't worry, darling. I'll do it in such a way that you won't have to worry about that nasty compulsion. There are enough people who have a grudge against darling Leo. >> Her voice is pitched low and knowing, the touch of telepathy wiping away the need to actually /refer/ to the totality of his history.
"So thoughtful," Jean murmurs, with a soft snort of laughter.
Emma beams brightly and insincerely as she sets her cup down. "My pleasure. Excellent tea."
"They offer packages of the house blend for sale at the cash," Jean notes, with a slight nod towards the racks of gleaming foil packages of loose leaf. "But don't let me keep you -- I'm sure you have other people besides our Lord and Savior in your daytimer."
"Oh, indeed," Emma laughs, picking up her hat and belongings, and shifting sideways so she can rise. "Delightful to see you again, Jean. We /must/ do this again soon. Come by the Club. We can play catchup." << Among other things. >> A mental image of Leo peering through the wrought iron gates as Jean and Emma enter the front door floats across, buoyed by the soft laughter of twisted pleasure. She winks down at Jean and turns to shimmy her way through the tables and out the door.
9/21/2008
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Lounge - Hellfire Clubhouse
A home within the home, this room is designed more for the comfort of the club's patrons than anything else. The usual complex wooden floors yield here to deep, wine-rich carpeting. The walls and ceiling are dark wood, the latter's beams openly visible to add to a casual feel reminiscent of the Arts and Crafts school of architecture. A couple of windows pierce the outside walls, simply but elegantly designed and held in roughened iron frames.
A number of chairs and couches scatter throughout the lounge, the brown leather of the backs and cushions a few shades darker than the polished wood of the arms and legs. Conversational clusters center on small tables, and some of the larger chairs that are on their own have very small tables equipped with reading lamps next to them. Antique floor lamps provide most of the ambient light during the quiet, dimmer times of day and night.
French doors covered with curtains matching the carpet lead into the gameroom on one wall and the rest of the north wing on another.
Early afternoon. The Clubhouse is mostly deserted, the various members drug away for attendance at social gatherings and 'family time'. Those that remain are the heathens and the rebellious. And Emma, who sweeps in under the brim of a large hat. She's looking for someone, and when her eyes fall on Adel, she finds him. She practically quivers with excitement, though you couldn't tell from looking at her. "Mr. al-Razi?" << /Darling/. >>
Heathen, Adel leans against the back of one of the leather chairs, speaking quietly to the rebellious old crank pot settled upon it. Whatever their conversation, Emma's appearance is reason enough to bring a swift conclusion to their discussion. Adel gives the older man a respectful dip of his head, and an easy smile. "--thinking about it is more than enough. Thank you for your time, sir. If you'll excuse me?" He tips his head toward Emma, and disengage with a brief clasp of hands to cross toward her. He's dressed in navy, but he has lost his suit jacket elsewhere, leaving him in dark trousers, vest, and a shirt lacking a tie, parted as it is at the collar. "Ms. Frost," he says, more formal greeting underscored by faint humor as he tips his head toward the game room. "I left a few things in there. How can I help you?" Telepathically, his question is a trifle more pointed: << Is it Christmas already? Why so excited? >>
Emma's lashes shiver down and back up in the briefest acknowledgement of protocol. She turns and heads for the game room at his indication. "I was hoping I might make use of your legal talents. I need a second pair of eyes for a reply..." She reaches up to remove hat and pin from her head as she passes through the archway. << I wanted to let you know that I have been considering your advice very deeply. And I believe I have the perfect candidate. >> The excitement bubbles up in a cacophony of mirth and scorn.
Hand over his heart, Adel dips his head. "My talents are yours." Passing through, he lifts his jacket from where it had been abandoned near the pool tables, exchanging brief nods before heading back out into the hall, and to quieter areas of the north wing, where two people walking in silence are not so obviously strange. << Already? >> Curiosity itches across his thoughts, prickling behind a simply queried, << Who? >>
Emma's thoughts grow opaque as her expression melts into one of impish irritability when they pass from easy observation. << Leonardo Maxwell. >> Her hat dangles by it's wide brim from her fingers at her side, while the other hand twirls the sharp, bejewled little hat pin.
Adel's expression goes blank as he tries to wrap his brain around the idea. His thoughts are not so blank: first, surprise, then incredulity; he shifts into thoughtful speculation. << How closely connected was he to those scientists last winter, and how widely is it known among the pawn base? >>
The surprise and incredulity is expected. The speculation isn't. She breaks her stride, a surprised blink tossed his way before rolling back into the smooth, strolling gait of their walk. << He funded them. Very little documentation, except for his ah... repeated confession of the association. Rebeckah is rather violently aware. >> A pause. << He /is/ easily manipulated. >>
Adel's lips twitch. << That's a problem. He's young, he's foolish, and he's known to have been involved in that. Won't work. >>
That's more like it. Emma can't suppress the mental snort. << But he wishes to be my King, >> she mock protests, sharing poor Leo's agonized protestations of his worth. << The idea would give Percy indigestion. >>
<< Tell him you have a position open for footstool, >> Adel suggests instead, nasty. For that matter, he briefly entertains a vision of Percy as footstool. Stomp. << Any /better/ ideas? >>
<< I just might. >> She sounds delighted with the suggestion. << No. No other ideas. Unless, >> cue a sly sideways look and an accompanying jump of suspicion. << You are angling for the position yourself? >>
Oh, look! More speculation, though hastily smothered. Adel smiles sidelong, eyebrows arching. << Hadn't considered it, >> he says, past tense entirely honest. And as for present, well -- he does not consider it long, except to go, << /That/ would /really/ give Percy indigestion. >>
Emma makes a little noise in the back of her throat and turns her attention to in front of her, suspicion banked but not extinguished. Though she does entertain the thought of Percy's reaction with some measure of fond, sadistic amusement. << Almost reason enough. >>
<< Almost. >> Adel watches Percy turn within Emma's thoughts, less sadistic than malicious in his delight. << Anyway, Maxwell aside, do you agree with the necessity? >>
<< Bring me someone worth considering, and I will let you know if I think it necessary, >> Emma retorts airly, turning a corner that empties them back out into the foyer and at the base of the stairs.
Adel reaches out to catch Emma by the elbow, touch light, but firm. He turns to face her, expression serious. << Emma, if you don't do it, someone else will. Eventually. >>
<< Then we should make every effort to find someone necessary before they do, shouldn't we? >> She pulls her elbow away from his hand and takes the first step. The hat drapes over the banister from her fingers.
Adel remains where he is, watching her with a light frustration rimming his thoughts. He exhales in short sigh, lifting his hand to run his fingers back through his hair. << Do you have any intention of setting up even a puppet? >>
Emma turns her shoulder back so she stands in profile to him, and the face she turns back is set and composed. << I don't have any intention of making a decision before we even have a prospect. Isn't it enough for you that I'm not saying no? >>
<< No. >> Adel holds her gaze. << Because you can mean no without saying it. What are your intentions? >>
<< My intentions are to continue to rule this Circle and to take and create advantages for it. If you wish me to consider a consort in order to compliment that intention, then find me one, >> she orders imperiously. With a cold frown, she turns from his gaze and starts up the stairs.
To the imperious and cold, Adel offers a flattening aspect. The openness of expression congeals, becoming more controlled. He rubs the back of his neck. << Easier done if I believed you would truly consider one, >> he says, leaning upon the banister of the stairs at the bottom, his gaze turned away in study of the hall. He does not follow.
Emma and Adel love Percy. Really.