10/25 - Adel, Percy
10/25/2008
Logfile from Emma.
The scene is eerily quiet and serene. Soon, sirens will split the sound, but for now, in this little forgotten niche of Chelsea, everyone has turned a blind eye. Everyone except Kara and Luke. Kara patrols the edges of the half-collapsed building, keeping a wary eye on the remaining structure, and a wary hand on the phone. Luke moves around the rubble, lifting here, searching there. He is coated in a fine film of grey dust and the grind of the past few days, the past few /minutes/ shows in the exhausted-touch franticness of his search.
The next to arrive at the scene are Fever and Listener on with the gentle roar of a motorbike, Fever's gaze a blaze of orange beneath the gleaming blue curve of her helmet. Listener, behind her on the machine, hugs so close around her torso as for dear life, so much so as to make breathing difficult, and the blaze of her skin is hot enough to heat through thin cotton and dark purple leather. It is the stuff of great buddy comedy, snapshotted in a frenetic moment.
With wary mistrust, Eliza and Meredith approach Kara and Luke. The exchange is brief, tense. Listener smashes it wide open like a hammer into a pumpkin, glomping Kara in an immediate hug; Luke looks very sheepish and puts Eliza to work immediately helping him root around in the rubble. With Listener's help, they orient on the Queen.
They find her in a moment of shocked silence, staring with uniform blankness at her, and the brace of her arms holding teetering brick and plaster away from the fallen redhead curled at her feet.
Fever regathers herself first, enough to make a phone call.
From there, quiet, murmuring exchanges, flickers of awe and bafflement back and forth, but mostly silence, as the car comes for them, and after. While the sirens light up a wail in the distance, the car rolls smoothly, serenely away, with two left behind to hurry the last of the cleanup and then scatter.
They bring her in the back way, not the front, while Luke carefully carries unconscious Jean down another hall and to the left, to set her up in guest quarters and arrange with Mickey for a guard rotation outside her door. Their important charge, though, is the White Queen.
The hallways leading to the Queen's quarters have been discreetly cleared in advance of Emma's arrival. The door to her office stands parted a scant inch or so. Within, a warm glow of light spills into the hall. It is not necessarily that the hall is underlit, but rather that, within, it is overly bright.
Adel and Percy sit in the chairs before the desk, with Adel draped in a slouch. He toes out of his shoes, fidgeting. Things being what they are, there is a small curve of metal near at hand -- but with /things/ being what they /are/, it is in his hand, rather than over his ear. Faded green and yellow blotches mark his throat. They are apparently sitting in silence. In truth, the conversation goes rather like, << --isn't it possible that it was some kind of illusion? >>
Emma's arrival is a muted thing, all things considered. The Queen in disgrace, or perhaps disguise. Whatever it is, it is quiet. Two pawns enter ahead and peel off to either side of the door, and behind her another enters, while the remainder of her escort blend back into the secrets passageways of the Circle. Emma steps through, head down, an unusual posture for the woman. She lifts her head and blinks somewhat in the light differential. Clothing, boots, coat, hair-- it all is in place and intact. Certainly not in the condition one might expect to find on someone pulled from the rubble of a building. Overlaying it all, as if encased in shiny plastic tinted blue, a sheen. A glimmer. A high gloss. The crystalline lips press the frown on her face deeper.
Doubt reflects back at Adel, voiced in silence. << Strange illusion, and it wouldn't explain Grey, >> he says, but wherever else his train of thought goes, it stutters to distraction as Emma steps into the light. Leaning forward with his elbows pressed to his knees and his head canted down, the weight of stress reflects the strain across his shoulders as well as in the strands of silver that curl amidst the dark waves of his hair. He blinks at Emma's entrance with a sudden blankness to his expression. Fingertips scruffing through his hair, his other hand closed around another inhibitor, he clears his throat. "Emma," he says, although his tone suggests a shadow of a question mark.
Adel fails to rise. He shifts, dropping a shoulder and rolling a look back over his shoulder. He marks Emma's appearance, confirming reports, and then glances past her toward the two-pawn detail left inside the door. An eyebrow pulls in editorial arch. Primed for defense, telepathy tentatively seeks the former shadow of her mind.
Defense is not needed. There is nothing of offense, and little of defense left in her mind. Shielding long learned, and of no more consequence than a talented flatscan, brushes aside at his touch. Inside, her thoughts are chaotic, naturally focused on recent events--crushing weight, confusion, sensations. Fear. Fear that runs rampant in her mind, but does not transmit to her face. "Percy," she replies quietly, inclining her head and then following Adel's look at the pawns. Her hands move from behind her back to grip her arms in front of her as she shifts her weight to one hip. The fear whispers variations on a familiar theme, but she dismisses it with the equivalent of a mental flick. She turns back to her Rook and Bishop, lets a glance settle on Adel's neck, then looks away, lifting a hand to inspect shining fingers. Another unseen emotion blossoms--shame. "Adel."
Percy's indrawn breath revealing little, his frown deepens where he sits, the twitch of his spine drawing straighter as he sits up. He, too, fails to rise, although this is more tense introspection than any blithe or casual rudeness. He opens his mouth as though to speak and closes it again, lips thinning with the expulsion of his breath. He finds himself, for the moment, at a loss.
Identification wavers: Emma? Frost? Either? Neither? Adel settles on an uptipped chin in silent acknowledgement. Tension written in the flat line of his lips pulls tight across the skin around his eyes as they narrow. He glances over at Percy, aside silent: << Not sure what to make of this. >>
They're all a little lost. Emma looks back at the pawns, and nods her head in the very old, very familiar gesture of dismissal. It's not really their fault if one looks to Percy before sliding out the door. That's about as far as they slide, but privacy is achieved. Emma flows into movement. A slow, uncertain movement toward the desk, but very pretty when the light bounces off planes and angles. "I--" Uncharacteristically, she stops, as if trying to gather her thoughts again. "God." She moves to the wall behind the desk, and keeps her back turned to them. "What an unholy mess."
Looking back at Adel, Percy raises his eyebrows in a slight arch, the shake of his head barely perceptible. << I'm getting nothing at all, >> he says. << But I don't think it is an illusion. >> He surveys Emma's body with a frank and baffled gaze. It occurs to him that that effect probably goes all the way through, so to speak, and he rubs at his eyes with thumb and middle finger. << What the hell. >> "Apt," he replies thinly, dropping his hand to curl in his lap. "Perhaps you'd like to explain it to us."
Adel snorts a quiet scoff. He tips his head to either side in an easy roll, stretching loose muscles pulled tight with tension. << Yes, >> he agrees, dry tone sharpened by a subtle edge. << That would be nice. >>
Emma looks back across her (shiny) shoulder at Percy. Her nostrils flare with an inhaled breath (how she's breathing, I don't know), then she turns and reaches for her chair. "Amahl Farouk." The low, chittering voice in her thoughts rise for a moment, unintelligble, but clear-it is /mad/. She pulls the chair out and drops heavily into it. Quite a bit heavily. It sinks as low as its levers will allow. A surprised look flickers down, then back up to the pair. "A... leech. Psychic entity. I assisted in removing him from this world a few years ago. Apparently, he found a way back. Through me," she recites dully, vocally-speaking.
Perhaps not surprisingly, Percy looks blank; his gaze slants sideways, taking in the burden on the chair, and then he looks back at Adel again. Although addressing Emma, he studies the Bishop for reactions. "A psychic entity," he repeats.
Adel's reactions are muted. He is seated in a slouched drape, with his elbow on the arm of the chair near Percy. His fingers mark the line of his jaw, propping his head, and in some part, likewise concealing his expression. The slight flutter of his lashes comes as slow blink. To Percy, he allows in rather flat tone, << That /could/ explain what has happened. That doesn't explain /this/. >> To both, he prompts, << And? >>
Emma startles at the sound of Adel's thoughts in in her head, appearing with no awareness of entry on her part. The loss of telepathy was quickly discovered. Having it effected /upon/ her is another matter. Unease, then muted apology and appeal shift through the slowly churning quagmire of her thoughts. "And?" she repeats verbally, blue eyes (even bluer now) shifts warily. "And what?" she fumes in embarrassed frustration. "And he wanted a life back. So he took mine." She leans forward and plants her elbows on the desk, lifting her hands to hide her face behind.
"And did what with it?" Percy snaps, the impatient edge of something like anger brewed from days' frustration and stirred with the dark draught of betrayal. He sits up straight, hands curling down hard against his knees with the slight lift of his chin. Narrowing his gaze at her, he drawls with false lightness, "You don't exactly seem /yourself/, my dear. At the moment."
Adel's eyes narrow. His gaze, as it flicks back in Percy's direction, is briefly nearly amused -- a dark, sardonic humor, but that still counts. It flattens again, drawn to a thin edge as he watches Emma. It isn't quite a blade, or a needle, but neither is it far from one. My, she sure is shiny.
Emma lifts her face out of her hand and regards Percy in very mild bafflement before looking down /at/ those fingers. "Oh. I don't know what this is." She turns her fingers over and continues to examine them. Yes, very shiny. "One minute, Grey was pulling the building down, the next..." Her fingers flick and roll, then drop to tap (tinkle) against the desk top.
Faint growl reflected in his breath, Percy settles slowly back in his seat and stares at Emma blankly. "What -- that," he starts to say, but even he has no idea where he is going, clearly from the absence of the rest of that sentence reflected in his thoughts. "Any idea /why/ this psychic entity would go so very far to /torpedo/ the White Court?" he asks.
Where Percy gets cranky, Adel mostly eases slow, inevitably into a bone-deep fatigue and weariness. The pheromones of it seep into the air, casting a fresh hue across the lingering pain his body every so often whines about. << Stop. Both of you. Start from the beginning, instead. What happened, from your point of view, over the past-- >> Here, he hesitates. Weeks? Months? << . >> Fullstop.
"Couldn't care less about the courts. Simply attempting to consolidate power--" Emma shoots an irritated look at Adel, a complaint about his method of communication on the tip of her tongue. It dies there; realization rushes forward to grab the comment by the tails and pull it back. Fresh shame, and then anger at the emotion, wash across her mind. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "I remember me, then less me, then me and him, but not me--" Her hand waves. "Weeks since he's been active, I believe, but who knows how long he's been there. I don't recall a time I've been particularly vulnerable in a very long time. Strongest around Hewitt. Larger chunks of time gone, but not gone. As if I'm seeing a recording." She buries her face in her hands again, posture echoing Adel's fatigue and more.
Drawing a deep breath past his nostrils, Percy closes his eyes: weariness and pain a pervasive dampener on the prickle of his frustration, he uses Adel blithely as aid to his self-control. He shifts again in his seat, cradling his head with the brace of his palms against both temples. "Hewitt," he says, after a moment's silence following this story. "Did he do something?"
Like two sides of a seesaw, Adel now sours. His expression tightens, silence held.
"I don't know," Emma answers, voice muffled by her hands. "Made it-- Made /me/ stronger?"
Hissing a breath out through his teeth, Percy scratches his fingernails over his scalp. "Fuck," he mutters. "And where is this -- Farouk now?"
<< I want a timeline. Events. Missing points. >> Adel's tone is flat, nearly Bahirish. << It doesn't have to be now. But I think it would be a good idea if we had one, to work out what ... else ... might've been done. >> Meanwhile, Percy has a REALLY GOOD QUESTION. His interest sharpens.
Each ticking point causes a mental flinch as thoughts leap frog over each other--timing, events, memories, dates--how to pin it down. Relief then coats them thinly. Agreement breaks through. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tom-- Farouk. Emma lifts her head and stares at Percy with dead, dull (shiny!) eyes and taps her temple with her finger. Tink! "Still here."
To that, Percy has but one thing to say: "/What/?"
Adel looks blank.
Emma lifts her brows and shrugs, dropping her arms to fold on the desk top. "I cannot access my telepathy. I assume that's the only reason I'm coherent. Side affect of--" A glance down. Crystalline hunks of hair bound into two tails hanging over her shoulders shift forward. "This, I presume."
"Which you have no idea what that is." Percy presses his palms against his eyes, so that neither of them can actually see his 'what the hell is going on' face.
Here's a hint. IT'S OBVIOUS, PERCY.
Adel does not have to see the face to recognize the emotion. He blinks, once, and then rubs his jaw. << Do you think she would agree to temporary confinement in the cell? We don't know how long the change will last, >> he asks Percy. Just Percy. For some strange reason.
Since Emma isn't privy to Adel's thoughts (STRANGE REASON), she simply makes a face at Percy that translates, roughly, "As I said."
Groan low in his throat, Percy slouches back against the edge of the chair and closes his eyes as his hands fall back to his lap, lashes fanning long and dark over the fair skin of his cheeks. He sighs. << The trouble with that is how temporary. We don't know how long the change will last -- or what we're going to do about any of it. The cell is at least a controlled environment. >>
<< Quite. >> Last word to Percy, Adel glances over Emma. His expression is fairly neutral. << Until this situation resolves, I would ask you to reside within the cell. Frankly, we have no idea what has happened to you to cause this-- >> A flick of his fingers indicates Emma's new form. << --and it could be related. We also don't know if the effect is temporary, and once it is gone, you provably cannot be trusted so long as, ah, he's still ... there. >>
She straightens, her attention snapping to Adel, anger and embarrassment jumping in shocky spikes through her mind, again nearly spilling out of her mouth. But evidently, she has regained some measure of self control, because she snaps her mouth closed and looks away and nods.
Mouth twisting into a grimace, Percy scrubs a hand over the side of his face. "Right," he says aloud. "We will do what we can to make it comfortable, assuming," he pauses, thinking of the odd 'tink' of her fingers against her ... skin, "... assuming that is possible." << What the hell do you do about a psychic entity? Do we need an exorcist? >>
Adel sighs. << I don't know, Percy. >> This, to Emma. NO JUST KIDDING. His word are for Percy alone: << She said she helped in removing him before, so maybe we can ask her about that later. I don't think I can take much more of this now, and she seems to need the rest. Settle her in with paper or a computer or something, to write out that account of the timeline. Also try to get her to write what happened before. >> Homework for Emma.
Emma flips a baleful look at Percy from the corner of her eye. The White Queen imprisoned in her own cell. Comfortable. Right.
<< Yeah. >> Percy wants a drink, although he does not say so. Instead he takes another long, slow breath, and looks back at Emma with a faintly narrow look, although whatever snide 'Well I COULD just leave it as is' thought he has not escaping his mouth. "Right," he says again, and shifts in his seat, sliding towards its edge as he gets ready to stand up. "Well."
Adel gives Emma a flat look. He pulls to his feet in advance of Percy. << I'd like you to try to establish what happened in your previous experience with this -- entity, or whatever -- as well as try to put down a timeline of what has happened the past few weeks, >> he says to Emma, Percy included after brief delay.
Emma returns it with a guarded, haunted one and remains seated. Not stubbornly. Just... numbly (ok, not so numb, but in that swirl of emotions where none and all take occasional precedence). They're going to have to fix the cell up anyways first, right? She nods, new images slipping in among her thoughts, memories of the previous circle. Amid them is a tiny, frightened voice wholly her own, carefully forming words to be picked up, not projected. << I'm sorry. >>
"I'll have Luke prepare things for you. We'll make sure to arrange for a notebook et cetera," Percy says as he rises, shrugging his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and breathing a slight snort with a sideways crook of his mouth.
Lashes falling over his eyes, Adel doesn't quite smile. There's a pull at his lips, but it as easily might be a grimace. Again, he sighs. SIGH, SIGH, SIGH. << I know. >> Percy does not get in on this conversation. << We can discuss it later. The priority right now is to restore you, body and mind. Good to have you back. Sort of. >> He does not clarify whether it is sort-of-good or sort-of-back, and even telepathy is little help there, with the words delivered as flat sounds in her mind.
Percy doesn't get the privacy of a... private apology. She turns the chair away from the desk and puts her hands on her knees, sitting stiffly like woman not entirely comfortable in her own clothes. Or in this case, her own skin. She nods to his assurance, and replies with a mono-toned, quiet, "I am sorry." She sits there another moment, then rises and moves to her bedroom without looking at either of them.
Looking after her for a long moment, Percy curls his hands to fists, which drop to his sides, and he slowly uncurls them again with a slight shake of his head. He glances at Adel and purses his lips, and says, "Fuck," before turning on his heel for the door.
No kidding.