(no subject)
4/4/2005
Logfile from Emma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Basement
While rich young bottle blondes the nation over have taken to carting around small dogs with them wherever they go, Ismena is neither rich (Although there's a certain amount the IRS doesn't know about.) 'nor blonde, and so chihuahuas are not on her list of fashion accessories. No, the tall and willowy woman sitting regally on an uncomfortable chair has chosen chinchillas instead. Only one is accompanying her today, the more docile Scylla, and the little rodent is currently capering about the small and nondescript waiting room, making the lone guard keeping an eye on her more than a little edgy. Apparently, he's not a fan of rodents.
Outside, the staccato of heels purposefully slapping wooden floors precedes the nervous guards movement away from the door, and in sweeps Emma Frost, dressed to the nines in a crisp linen business suit. "Ms. Diatrephes," she murmurs, smiling genially enough. "Forgive the absolutely horrible breach of manners in bringing you here thusly. I hope you've been..." And now the chinchilla chooses to make her appearance. Emma blinks at it, brows knitting, and glances toward the guard who simply shrugs and shakes his head. "...comfortable," she continues, dragging her attention back tot he matter at hand.
Ah, and the chief priestess of this particular temple chooses to make an appearance. Scylla hop-skitters over to investigate Emma's shoe with an eye towards its gnawing potential, round little ears perked, eyes bright, and bristle-brush tail at attention. Ismena watches her pet with a briefly indulgent smile for her, before the expression vanishes, and she regards Emma with the sort of steady nod one gives to an equal. "Indeed," she assures. "Your Jason is quite an intriguing person, and your Sabitha is a dear, and brought my little darling to me. Your lapse of manners is excusable, in light of the fact that such behavior has given me new amusements to observe." She pauses and then lifts her eyebrows at Emma, signalling that it's her move, and looking not the least bit deferential.
An odd one to say the least. Why can't we ever have someone simply overwhelmed by Emma's sheer presence? *sigh* Emma lifts her own brow in response to the information about who to blame for the rodent problem. The one that Emma sidesteps neatly under the pretext of moving toward a chair. "Well, then, I'm so please to have been of some small benefit," she replies, letting her powers waft outwards, focusing them on the enigmatic woman like a serpent tasting the air.
Scylla follows. She, like others of the chinchilla race, is intelligent and curious, and Emma is not giving her attention. Which she wants. Fortunately, Ismena decides that she wants her pet back again, and calls the little grey fluffball over to her with a lowered hand and some soft chirping noises. Scylla safely grooming herself and shedding all over the grecian gown Isme's wearing, she eventually looks up to Emma with a vague, bored, noise of agreement. Ugh, small talk. Her mental state is oddly tranquil for someone in her position, stray thoughts ticking along tangents that please her, such as things that might be done to explore the guard's fear of rodents, passages of Orwell's 1984 that feature death by rats, and a meticulous line of inquiry as to whether rats could be used in lieu of flesh eating insects to strip a skeleton. Simple things like that. Concern for Travis is no-where in sight.
Now, most people would consider Emma a scary person. The cold demeanor, the apparent lack of care for anyone or anything. The patent disregard for anything or anyone not considered useful. But even she's mildly phased by the collection of... tangents Ismena's mind branches out into. Small talk indeed. She lowers herself into the chair and crosses her legs, wrapping her hands around her knee and letting that blank, pasted smile hang between them for a moment longer. Emma nudges the woman's attention back toward her chinchilla (ugh. Rodents.) and from there to Sabitha. One step at a time.
Ismena :'s attention is a capricious construction. It lingers on the chinchilla for an inordinate amount of time, as she runs her fingers through the endearing little creature's coat, parting the hair to examine her skin carefully, over and over, until she's sure that her pet is healthy. It flickers briefly to Sabby at Emma's direction, turning up a vague memory that the other young woman was afraid of chickens, but claims to be no longer, and then goes skating off again. Chickens. Roosters. Vodoun rituals, and parallels between them and ancient bacchanals.
Emma catches the slippery thought and directs it back, first pulling on the connecting thread to bring up the memory of the young woman bringing the beloved pet, then directing the thoughts in the direction of other places she'd seen her. On the news, most likely. At Travis's apartment, perhaps?
And again, Ismena's thoughts prove less than interesting on the subjects Emma is most after. There is a brief image of Sabby and Travis on TV, and a brief snippet of drawling memory in which Isme teases Travis about said appearance, and then she looks up at Emma with a slight dip of her chin. "I see that you are one of Psyche's daughters, Ms. Frost," she replies with smoothly featureless calm, and dark, dark eyes. "You may find yourself doing better if you merely ask me, rather than attempt to school my thoughts. They go where they will, little silver fishes of the mind, and they do not net easily."
Emma had begun concentrating so intently on her work that she'd neglected to keep up her end of the inane exchange that would normally fill the void. Silver fishes indeed. She lifts her brows but does not sound the retreat on her powers, merely letting them go slack, inert blocks weighing heavily in her mind. "And I see that Mr. Reed's strange neighbor is more than she appears. Very well. I simply wish to know where Mr. Reed is, and what you know of his recent... enterprises."
Ismena shrugs at that, and allows Scylla to scramble from her lap and over on to the arm of Emma's chair, motion indolent and langorous. "I know nothing of where Mr. Reed, as you call him, is currently residing," she replies, her thoughts and mind bearing her out, as the sole recent memory is of Travis popping by to inform her that he was going to be away from his apartment for an unspecified time. This segues into a menage of images, whirling past like kaleidoscope shards, images of minor burglary, lockpicking lessons, and other mild amusements, sharper thoughts of afternoons in the park spent messing with hapless passerby filtered in as well. Absolutely nothing pertaining to the current endeavour, Isme's scattered, shattered, decidedly askew memory processes placing what she did with the envelope on the table in a completely different mental file.
Emma eyes the incoming rodent warily. Think Isme would be very mad if Emma tried to redirect it away. Of course, lacking the finesse of one Dr. Grey, she'd probably leave the animal a paraplegic mess. Emma lets the whiling thoughts bounce off her blocks like photographic paper and radioactive isotopes, leaving impressions to be examined later, if needed. She smiles, the gesture edged. "And his recent activities? Has he ever confided in you? Given you something to keep for him, perhaps?"
Ismena would probably arrange for Emma's death if something happened to the chinchilla, so we may not want to test this theory. The Greek woman's smile reappears, just slightly unsettling, as she watches both Scylla and Emma's reaction to her, eyes avid and hoping to see some flinching. Scylla merely paws at Emma's arm with teeny-tiny rodent hands. Pet me, you fool. Isme laughs outright at the question, the sound lacking all of the pleasant qualities normally associated with a laugh. "You must have very interesting pictures in your mind, Ms. Frost. It is most unfair that you can see mine, and I cannot see yours. But no, we do not confide in each other, or keep each others' things. That would be a terribly mundane representation of neighbours."
Emma won't give her the satisfaction. She picks the animal up carefully and redeposits her on the floor, the dusting of her fingers the only indication of the distaste she has. Small, furry things are not her idea of fun. "Indeed, most unfair," she agrees calmly, lines appearing along the sides of her upper lip as she presses her lips together into a thin line. "But you will pardon me if I am not too concerned about the disadvantage you may be at." A knock on the door, a whispered conference between it's slivered crack, and Emma suddenly smiles. "Oh, terribly mundane," she purrs, no longer granting Isme or her pet even the pretense of her attention. She stands.
Ismena pouts, slightly and clearly for show, as Emma proves to be a tougher nut to crack than her guard. The chinchilla is scooped up once more, and settled within a fold of the half-cloak she's brought with her as a shield against the early spring weather. The expression vanishes as soon as Emma's attention is elsewhere, and she clears her throat as Emma stands. "Am I free to go, then, or will I be spending more time in the company of the delightful Jason?"
Emma sideglances the woman and smiles coldly. "Oh, of course, my dear. I'll have somebody escort you out." She inclines her head in a graceful nod that is entirely at odds with tense and controlled manner she holds herself and steps for the door, letting it slam shut behind her. Yes, Ismena is free to go. After another hour or so of waiting. Because of the rat.
4/3/2005
Logfile from Emma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Basement
Aren't knock-out drugs and blindfolds and handcuffs wonderful things? Especially when one doesn't have to dirty one's hands with them. Travis' capture was quick and efficient, once they finally caught up with him, a block and a half away. Tsk. Silly boy. Now? Now he sits in an empty, grey room, cuffed to a squeaky, grey chair, with a dirty, grey blindfold around his eyes. Until it is lifted away and a visage that should be rather familiar to him gradually comes into focus. "Forgive the rough handling, Mr. Reed. But I was afraid that a engraved invitation would have simply been ignored," Emma purrs, stepping back, the blinfold dangling between the tips of her fingers.
Travis's lip slides over a slightly puffy lip. Other than that and a few light bruises, there's not /too/ much sign of a struggle before the knockout. Or after his wake-up either. When you're playing cat-and-mouse, there's always the part when one gets caught. Of course, the game is only half-over at that point. He shrugs at her comment. "No worse than I expected, Ms. Frost," he replies, for all appearances quite politely. "Although you never know about the invitation. If I'd known you wanted to see me..." It's /just/ on the edge of sarcasm.
Emma lifts a brow and offers a little acknowledging nod, running the blindfold through the thumb and forefinger of her other hand as she circles slowly. "Oh, you knew I wanted to see you. Or at least would after your little visit to Sabitha. What was that about anyways? Playing knight errant. Or maybe you were -hoping- she'd relay the information? But no... I suppose if you -really- wanted that, you would have simply made an appointment." She behind him by now, her voice even and smooth. "Tell me, Mr. Reed. We're both people of the world. We both know that we are going to dance around the subject, make barbed comments, do a little..." her hand brushes the back of his shoulder as it trails along the chair back, "give and take. How about we whet both our appetites for the fun by beginning with a concession? I'll grant any request pertaining to your comfort... Ah. Comfort," she forestalls the anticipated response with a cold smile and shake of her head. "Not freedom. In exchange, you'll answer one simple question. Completely for my own curiosity. Why /did/ you tell Sabitha?"
Travis gives a slight nod toward Emma. "No ropes or handcuffs," he states, pulling at them so they clank against the chair. "Saves me the effort of undoing them myself, of your men putting them back on, and makes conversation much more relaxed. We both know I'm not going anywhere anyways, so let's put away this pretense. Even if I were to escape, I'm not leaving New York. My town as much as anyones. And it'd only be a matter of time before you'd find me again and we'd have to go through this conversation again. If you don't believe me... well, I'm sure you have ways of telling if I'm lying." That said, he leans back in his chair, glancing around the room thoughtfully. "Ah, Sabitha. Well, perhaps you'll take an attempt at an answer as sign of my good intent, but in all honesty, I'm not sure /I/ completely understand. We have had a... complex relationship. And I'm not qutie sure /what/ I feel about her at times, but that in itself is significant that I'll admit that to myself, let alone to you. The information I found was dangerous. Not to you, I'm confident even if it were aired you'd escape any significant repercussions. Someone would take the fall, though, and I didn't want it to be her. At least not without her having advance warning and time to decide if she wanted to be that scapegoat. And whatever my vices, backstabbing is not one of them. If she chose to follow that path, I wanted her to find out from my mouth and not someone else's that I was the one who sparked it."
At a nod, one of Travis' manhandlers steps forward and unfastens the cuffs before returning to his position by the door, and Emma finishes her slow circuit, the room seeming to darken at the edges and the air still as she starts to wrap his perceptions in a fog. She's dressed for business. Her business, anyways, in the infamous hotpants and boots get up. She moves to sit down and a chair is pushed under her just in time to save her from an embarrassing fall. She smirks lightly and folds one long leg over the other, one hand gripping the edge of her seat, the other resting lightly on her knee. "Well, that was most... gregarious of you. Thank you. Maybe we can still do business. Of course, that depends entirely on your cooperation." She holds a hand up and a silver tray bearing the unmarked envelope found in Travis' apartment appears, and she smiles dangerously.
If Travis is concerned about the envelope, the only visual reaction is a slightly lifted eyebrow. And if Emma's reading, his thoughts flicker to the security box backup copy. Mostly he's still fairly level, though, not wandering into panicky or overconfident. "Well, I suppose that package proves I /did/ uncover information. And the fact that I'm here just recently unbound shows that you consider it as potentially dangerous as I expected. And I think you'll find I can be very cooperative when there's business involved. Not that I have many options."
"Mr. Reed, I would have had you killed for even making the claims that you did, substantiated or not. You might have been correct in your assessment that I could have weathered anything you dug up on me. But you violated the one thing that I hold sacred, and that is the security of my students." Ie, she's the only one allowed to put them in harm's way. She leans back slightly and narrows her eyes. "So. No, you do not have -any- options other than the ones I give you. Tell me who your client is." There is a feeling of a fingernail running up the nape of Travis' neck. "Have you already delivered the information." The finger nail digs painfully into the soft spot at the base of his skull. "And if not, do you have any other contingencies for ensuring it's delivery?" A sharp, fiery jab of pain that licks blackly at the edges of his vision.
Travis's eyes water, though he doesn't cry out at the pain. Torture comes in many forms, but some of the same coping mechanisms apply. He sits in silence a moment, not a sullen or defiant silence, simply a contemplative and recouperative one. "I overestimated you, it appears," he finally says, a touch of distain creeping into his tone as he levels a gaze at Emma. "I'd heard your conversational skills were exquisite and didn't realize you'd need to resort to more primitaive measure such as pain. But," he continues after a slight pause. "Be that as it may, I don't typically divulge client information. Nor to I typically get caught, so I suppose the situation is unique. She called herself Elayne, and you have my originals in your hand. As I told Sabby, the backup will be delivered in..." he pauses, counting in his head, "ten days time. No sooner."
Emma laughs lightly, shifting in her seat, pulling back her indelicate probing so it is simply a pressure, not painful, but constant to remind him. "My conversational skills are honed on some of the brightest people in the world. You, dear boy, do not fall into that category. Though perhaps I don't give you enough credit. Emotions are tricky things, aren't they, Travis. You will allow me to call you Travis, won't you dear? They do tend to muck up mental acuity. Take my sweet Sabitha, for example. Do you have any clue what she risked for you? Silly girl. So sentimental. Even asked for me to tell her myself if I was forced to kill you. I think you've used her dreadfully. I don't like people who misuse my students." Emma leans forward, fastening cold eyes on his face. "You will tell me how to abort that delivery, and I will verify the truth of what you've told me. You will then make a decision, Mr. Reed. Travis..."
"Travis is fine, ma'am," he replies, obviously not requesting the same courtesy. His stomach does a slight lurch when the word emotions pops into conversation, though he relaxes slightly as she continues. Bits of confusion float across the brainwaves, along with a few scattered thoughts for those so observant. Sentimental? Not so easy to forget. Damn you, Sabby. Why couldn't you just leave-- "I suppose they are at that," he says finally. "Although she very strongly believes I did nothing of the sort. At least if I believe what she told me to my face. Abort the delivery. Well, if your men performed a thorough enough search of my apartment, I'm sure they discovered the security box receipt that I carelessly left behind. I realized that I didn't have it on me as I had first intended." Truth... "I have a webmail account set up with an email delivery scheduled for my client of next week. The message tells the bank where she may obtain the information and the hiding location of the deposit box key. It also contains an expenditure report, with the job total, minus the cash prepayment, and an account where she may have the rest of the funds deposited. A new account, no previous transactions, to save you the trouble of running a check on it." See, he's cooperative, no?
Emma pushes slowly to her feet and takes the two small steps to bring her to his side. She plants a hand on the chair back just behind his right shoulder and leans in, Dior caressing his nose. "Oh, very good. Thank you, Travis, darling," she purrs as she swings her leg around the chair and lowers herself into his lap, her other hand reaching behind him to take the chair knob. She leans in, ever so slightly, and arches a brow as she slides into his mind again, this time with a cool, smooth sensation. She smirks, holding his gaze with her own as she cheerfully rifles through emotions, memories, and thought, leaving them wafting in her mental wake like little pieces of confetti, Nauseating, isn't it? This sensation of not being able to form or hold a thought? Finally a memory pops up and holds her attention. << Oh, ho... Travis, is this your client, >> she calls out, the identity confirmed even before he can muster the willpower to respond. << Well, aren't we the old gumshoe, Dr. Grey... >> A few more minutes of gathering interesting tidbits of information, and she skips free of him, leaning back and collecting herself with a small gasp.
It's quite unnerving being on the /receiving/ end of these mind games. Not being able to hold a steady thought is bad enough. Not being to concentrate enough to know exactly /what/ she's rifling through is quite another. Now he's got quite the sour look on his face. Though there's obviously at least /something/ pleasureable, from the looks of it. And that makes his face darken all the more as he quickly shifts position in the chair. "If I'd known /that/ would in the agenda, I might have made a different choice with regard to comfort," he finally comments, tone as even as he can manage at the moment. "Enjoy your stay? You might want to... wash your hands at least."
Emma smiles smugly and moves with his shifting seat, her expression saying that she is fully aware of just how much pleasure Mr. Reed took from that encounter. "It was fascinating, Travis, pet," she purrs, moving her arms to rest lightly on his shoulders, hands draped behind his neck. "It might have been interesting if you had..." (re: the comfort request) "Though I doubt it would be worth dealing with the shrew Sabitha would no doubt become should she ever learn of it. Besides," she tips her head in to whisper just against the corner of his mouth, "I wouldn't want you to think it was part of your benefits package." She lets out a soundless chuckle and pulls back and out of his lap in a single fluid motion.
Travis coughs slightly, again shifting positions in the chair. They make these things so damn uncomfortable these days. He smoothes the faint scowl off his face, taking a slow breath to regain what he can of his composure. If Emma thinks him encouraging her, so much the better. "So is this the point where you tell me about my retirement benefits then?"
Emma sits down sideways in the other chair, looping an elbow over its back, her expression shifting from heated interest to cool indifference in the space of three seconds. "Oh, those will all be industry standard, plus ten percent. Assuming you accept my proposition to drop this investigation and work on retainer on my behalf. Remember about your options, Travis? This is it. You accept, or I will have to make an example of you. It wouldn't do to let you make your reputation at my expense, now would it?"
"That's very generous of you," Travis says. Nope, no sarcasm there. But apparantly that's the mask most easily assumed. "It would be very difficult to complete the investigation given current circumstances, now wouldn't it?" he replies, glancing off to the side at the envelope-of-doom. "And seeing as I've never set a good example for others, I suppose I must accept. And what sort of retainer work would you be sending my way? I always had 'Does not play well with others' on my gradeschool reports. If you're expecting me to play fetch, I might arrange my own retirement plans, as secure as this 401k is."
Emma shoots him a sharp glance and rolls her eyes. "I begin to understand Sabitha's interest in you. Do you -always- question people who have you, forgive the crudeness, by the balls? I will pay you to keep you mouth shut, to refuse any further assignments investigating me or mine, and to send me any useful information you might uncover. There may occasionally be a specific assignment, but that come at my discretion. Not yours. No matter what your teachers said. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Reed." Oo... back to last name basis? You're trying her patience dear boy, and it should be obvious.
Yes, but that's what Traviggers do b-b-b-best. Travis raises an eyebrow at her reference to Sabby, but doesn't comment. "I do at that, Ms. Frost," he says, bowing his head ever-so-slightly toward her. "Consider it a character flaw. Or a preservation technique. But either way, you are very clear. And you'll have to forgive my comment about the overestimation. I stand corrected. Figuratively speaking, of course." Now /why/ did he bring that up?
Emma narrows her eyes and stands, dissipating the fogged perception of the room and increasing the light intensity enough to make him squint and blink. "Of course. Bravado is something I understand, and most people who say that do end up eating their words. But let me make one other thing Very Clear, Mr. Reed. You had the advantage of anonymity before. I know you now, and I will be watching. Don't try anything stupid. You owe this chance to Sabitha. Don't make me break her precious little heart." Again with that chilling smile, and she turns to leave the room.
If Emma is hoping for a gushing display of gratitude---well, she didn't read Travis' mind very carefully then. He doesn't move to stand as she exits, though at this point, it'd be hard to know which would be the greater faux paux at this moment. As she takes her leave, though, he does offer a "I'm glad we were able to have a longer chat this time. And I look forward to working with you. Good evening." And with that, he sits back, waiting for her to take her leave before any attempt at doing so himself.