(no subject)
Oh, god...
I think I'll die, locked into this shell.
Alone. Truly and completely alone.
1/31/2006
Logfile from Emma.
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Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
The heart of the White Queen's rule reflects her color and her taste. Spotless white carpet covers the floor, and flawless white paint coats the walls, all but the outer one, which boasts a single, huge picture window that surveys the gardens and the East River beyond them. A lushly upholstered couch in the corner offers a perch for enjoying that view or simply relaxing, with an end table and lamp at hand for reading.
The furniture is as minimalist and modern as the décor. The desk is a single slab of brushed aluminum, curving down and under itself for support. A trio of ultra-slim flat-panel displays extends out of the desk's surface on articulated arms adjustable to any orientation; touch-sensitive panels supplant keyboard and mouse for a variety of interface options. The computer itself lies behind a wall: easily accessible when needed and discreetly invisible when not. A sweeping throne of a chair sits behind the desk, its seat and back crafted of brushed aluminum to match the desk. Two rather more modest chairs crouch in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests.
All is well. And then the electricity shuts off, rather as if someone outside has thrown an immense switch and blacked out an entire wing of the clubhouse. In the meanwhile, black overcoat furling in the winter wind, helmet gripped under his right arm, down steps Erik Lensherr onto an isolated balcony, not three rooms down from the illustrious White Queen's Hellfire office. The door waved open (and off its hinges to tumble over the balcony edge and down into the hedges below) Erik thumps on into the building, and down the hall for Emma's office.
All is not well. Not really. But the appearance of wellness is enough. Appearance often is. Startled from her reverie by the dimming of lights and sounds, Emma jerks to attention in her chair and reaches for her intercom. Which of course doesn't work. No matter. Pawns will arrive within seconds, certainly. She inhales deeply, attempting to slow an already racing heart and listens for and to approaching footsteps, locked to physical senses alone.
Thump, thump, thump. A shout, before another door can be thrown off its hinges and flung into the first pawn on the scene. A crash, something breaking. Door and pawn hit the far wall, then the floor. Erik steps over both (neither seems inclined to move any further) and, for once, tries the office door.
It's unlocked, and that habit really needs to be re-examined. But it /is/ open. No need to deface more property! Emma pushes to her feet at the first crash, wild-eyed and panicked. The second spurs action, sending her around the desk and across the room to reach for the closest thing to a weapon she has in the room- heavy silver candlesticks set to one side of the mantle place, and then to the side of the door as it turns and opens. "Whoever you are, I wouldn't move if you value your life," she bluffs.
Erik, somewhat baffled by this development, doesn't move, if only because he isn't entirely certain of what he should do. At the sound of scuffling, running footsteps on the approach, he goes ahead and steps in anyway, closing the door behind him with a look at Emma that says very clearly, 'Or what?'
"Shit!" Emma exclaims as he steps into view, and the candlestick is dropped as if it were heated lead. "Of course it had to be you," she mutters, backing up and step to lean against the wall, heading tipping up and eyes closing, breath coming on shaky gasps. "Don't you ever just call /ahead/?"
Again, mild startlement is evident in Erik's reactions to Emma's, his back and shoulders going rigid as he straightens his posture and lifts his brows slightly back at her. "I would, but the one time I /did/ attempt to make prior arrangements with a business contact here, I woke up in prison." Having found it in himself to move once again, he side-glances suspiciously across the office at Emma and thumps his helmet down into her desk. "You're looking a little more human than usual."
Oh. Yeah. /That/. Emma growls at the assessment and slits her eyes open to glare balefully at him. "What the hell is /that/ supposed to mean? And speaking of your recent prison stint, what the hell are you doing /here/?"
"I'm not sure. Listen to yourself, and then you tell me." Erik mutters, head turning back towards the door once the voices outside it become more audible. "These things are documented in the papers, you know. That's what they're for. Call off your people."
"I didn't ask what you were doing out. Just /here/," Emma snaps, pushing off the wall and jerking the door open to yell a dismissal at the approaching security. That done, and the door closed again with a small slam, she turns back to him, the heel of one hand reaching up to scrub at her temple and a pinched expression on her face. "I don't want to play games, Erik. I'm not up for them."
As the door is opened and security is called off, Erik is left to stare blandly after her. He flinches slightly at the slam, snapped out of observation, to lift the candlestick with little more than a distracted lift of his right hand. The metal seems inclined to do the rest itself, stretching and distorting after Emma. Trying to get around her neck.
Her eyes flick to the side just before cold, metallic fingers slide around her neck. She doesn't fight it, much. Just slides her fingers around the band, trying to force fingers between it and skin. "What will you gain by my death?" she wheezes quietly.
Magneto doesn't reply. Instead, he draws his helmet back into himself from across the office, catching it with both hands before he looks back at her. "Nothing. What is wrong with your telepathy?"
Emma smirks, a difficult feat over the chin lifting pressure of metal and fingers, and an expression that holds no amusement all. "Jean."
"Mmm, well. From the reports my people have been bringing me, you are lucky that you have a functioning brain at all." Erik replies without missing a beat, though the icy glint of his glare does soften. Very slightly. "But that, I'm afraid, is a discussion for another time." Back against the wall, the metal around her neck jerks her, so that he can bear down upon her without worrying about further physical attempts at retaliation. "I was told that you were somewhat uncooperative in your dealings with Mystique in my absence."
Emma chokes and stumbles as she's pulled off balance and back, gasping against the constriction and blinking to clear her eyes of spots, leaving them closed and sagging slightly. "Yes," she answers, inhaling deeply before continuing. "She wanted your money, and I didn't give it to her." She slips, her heel caught on the hem of her pants.
"My dear, the only individual I keep /alive/ that I am concerned about backstabbing me on a regular basis is /you/." Voice dropping to a near growl as he draws near, it's clear from closer inspection that he is either very tired, or very hungover. Perhaps both, with dark circles around his eyes and a general hollowness about his face. "You were /well/ aware of my situation."
"Which is why moving a large portion of your..." She inhales a gasp and continues, "money wasn't a good idea. Erik. Everyone," another breath, "was aware of your situation. Moving it would put... /everyone/ you do business with at ... risk."
As she continues to talk, the ring of silver lifts a good inch or two at Erik's direction, forcing her up onto her toes, if she wants to keep breathing with any semblance of regularity. "She also said that you did not seem particularly put out by what happened. Tell me, how is it that you failed to notice such a massive operation being set up upon your very lawn?"
"I... wasn't... /here/," Emma gasps, indeed pushing up onto tiptoe.
"How terribly convenient." Erik mutters, head tilting in idle observation of her evident misery. He sighs a moment later, and the ring pulls itself abruptly apart, releasing her.
Emma slumps out of its grasp and continues the motion down the wall, ending up in a tired, emotionless huddle. "Where do you want the money transferred? I have about two-thirds converted," she asks tonelessly after a moment.
"I will have someone call you." Helmet shifted to turn serenely in the air above his upturned left hand, Erik uses the right to rub tiredly over his face. "How long is this going to last?"
"Another four to six weeks. The last set of funds dropped significantly in value and so required a little more finesse," Emma answers, gaining her feet again, using the wall as support. "Unless you don't care about the loss?" She keeps her eyes averted and tone respectful, but sneaks an assessing glance at him before adding softly. "Do you want to sit down?"
"That isn't what I meant." Grudging and weary, Erik shifts at her question, dropping down into the first chair that happens into his vicinity.
"Then what did you mean?" Her voice rises and threatens to quiver, but she bites down hard on it. "I'm sorry, Erik. I can't read your mind, after all," she says, smiling bitterly.
"If you think I enjoy coming in here and torturing you for information, you are sadly mistaken." Irritation rising again, Erik pulls in a deep breath and forces himself to settle, his glare still boring into her across the room. "How long ago did Jean attack?"
"But you do it so often," Emma chirps brittly, then sighs and crosses to deposit herself in the chair opposite him, elbows on her knees and head cradled between her hands. "Saturday night. She showed up at a benefit and..." A hand moves free to make a vague hand, then returns.
Leaning far to the right once his helmet has been deposited in his lap, Erik throws one leg over the other and rests his head on a waiting hand, slacks pulling high to reveal a combat boot in place of the sort of more practical shoe one would normally wear with a suit. Her first comment is flatly ignored. "And she did it telepathically?"
"Telepathically, telekinetically, I don't know. I can't even assess my own damage. All I know is that I'm... crippled," she answers, frustrated, running her fingers through her hair as she sits up straight and grasps for her composure with visible effort. "It's like I'm hollow, and everyone else, /you/, are a cardboard cutout."
"I should think mine is not a mind any sane person would want to spend time in anyway." Eyes rolling closed, Erik massages his paired fingers into his temple. "Have you considered contacting Charles?"
Emma watches the motion for a moment, then stands and crosses to a cabinet behind her desk. "I /don't/ spend much time there, Erik. But ever since I was sixteen, there's been a..." She stops and exhales, hanging onto the door of the cabinet. The moment passes, and she reaches inside, withdrawing a pharmaceutical vial. "Forgive me. I'm still having trouble keeping the thread of my thoughts." She shakes out a pill and breaks it in half, returning one to the vial, and clasping the other in her hand as she leans over and reaches into a secreted refrigerator for a bottle of water. "Anyhow... a 'substance' to their presence. Something that is uniquely them." She closes both doors and turns back, working back around the desk and holding both pill and bottle out to him. "I have. Briefly. But considering it was his pet pupil..."
Magneto opens his eyes at the sound of her approach, glare lifting to the pill, and then to Emma before he sits up a little straighter and reaches for it. Then the water. "He will know what is happening. If he can admit it to himself, that is. He might help you out of /guilt/, if nothing else, even if it is only to determine how the deed was accomplished." Water bottle cap unscrewed, Erik squints only briefly at the pill before popping it into his mouth and swallowing it down. "Who else knows about this?"
Emma's lips quirk at the examination, but she holds her tongue until his question requires a reply. "Sebastian. My personal assistant. Jean."
One more sip of water taken for good measure, Erik recaps the bottle and drops it lazily into the seat next to him before reassuming his leaning posture. "And Jean was, what? Unreasonable? Insane?"
"Catty." Emma leans back against the edge of the desk, hands gripping its edge. "She was perfectly sane, perfectly reasoned. Except for the part where she was acting completely out of character."
"Mystique witnessed her performing a pair of impromptu lobotomies on the street, via telekinesis. Another of my recruits was broken telepathically and forced to carry a message back to me with broken ribs and soiled trousers."
"Well. Saint Grey has gone on quite the little rampage, hasn't she?" Emma snarks, lip curling. "I know of at least one other incident, and one that she appears to be contemplating."
"Mmm." says Erik, smiling faintly, and largely to himself. "Being in prison has limited my ability to take full advantage of the intelligence available to me. Did she want anything from you?"
Emma mews slightly, giving an appearance of appropriate sympathy, then shrugging at the question. "Mmm. I'd have to say no. Not that I remember every little detail of our conversation, you understand. But no, it appeared she just doesn't like me."
Magneto shifts, gaze moving away from Emma as he turns various thoughts over in his head. The water at his side sloshes quietly.
Emma keeps her eyes on his face, trying desperately to read his face without the benefit of also reading his emotions and thoughts. Finally, she asks instead, voice soft and hesitant. "Erik? What are you thinking?"
"That I am sorry. I could have been more patient, I suppose. Or made some effort to discipline you when you were younger..." Glancing back over to her, Erik looks away again and pushes off the chair, up onto his feet. "Anyway. I have things to see to."
Emma blinks and straightens, confused by the reply. She slides to her feet as he stands and gnaws on her lower lip, nodding. "I'll wait to hear from you, then."
"Not from me. One of the individuals involved in the transfer, more than likely." And with that and a nod, helmet swept back to his side and water left behind, Erik heads for the door.
1/31/2006
Early afternoon on this crisp New York day. Just past the hour when one's breath has stopped turning to mist, when the winged form of Warren Worthington turns his long, even strides toward a place long abandoned: the office of his once and nominal Queen. Pausing to direct a lingering look about the hallway, he does not dwell long in recollection before approaching Emma's door directly.
Evidence of damage freshly repaired and created litter the hall, two workers re-hanging one door of two that have been pulled free of their hinges. Emma's door, however, is undamaged.
His composure is unfaltering at the sight. Appearances being everything, no matter how confused one might be, the appearance of understanding and control can make all the difference.. except of course, when telepaths are involved. Paying the workers only the briefest of attentions, Warren moves to the door left intact, and reaches a hand for the knob, forgoing his customary knock. With others present to see, it simply wouldn’t do to ask and be rebuffed...
Considering the nasty habit people have of dripping by uninvited, it's not surprising that the door is locked. A pawn rounds the corner at the end of the hall and nearly squeaks to see his mistress about to be disturbed. He scurries forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Worthington. Can I help you?"
Warren looks to note the pawn's approach, holding his words until the young man in within proper conversational distance- A harmless little boy at her door. He ought'nt be surprised. "Yes, you may, thank you. I wish to call upon Miss Frost." The hand upon the door is drawn unhurriedly back, and meets it's opposite at the small of the winged gentleman's back. Idly, Warren notes that he doesn’t recall this particular pawn before him.. How quickly things change.
The seemingly harmless little boy turns and knocks for him. Emma opens the door a moment later, and glances past his shoulder to the wings filling the view of the hall. Tired and dressed in clothes designed for comfort instead of style, she's oddly not surprised to see him. "Yes, I see. Thank you," she says dismissively, moving away and pulling the door open behind her. She's nearly across the room before Warren can enter. "Has an announcement gone out, or am I really to believe this is pure coincidence?"
"Coincidence? Hardly. Not when simple observation will suffice so wonderfully.." Warren replies with a smile as Emma appears at the door, and turns across the room in an instant. His thoughts remain silent, as he steps in, letting the door go closed upon his passing. "you seclude yourself, and cancel appointments.. Sebastian comes calling, and departs in less than the most composed of states.. I may lack for much, Emma dear, but I still have eyes." The details of her appearance are noted swiftly, before blue eyes return to seek out blue. "Will you tell me, or shall we dance for it?" he inquires simply, smile faded as soon as the door swung shut, yet not wholly gone.
"Eyes in the back of your head, you mean. I thought I had rooted out the pawns loyal to you, but obviously I missed one," Emma snaps, running fingers through her hair and lacing them behind her neck as she turns to look out the window. "If you're so clever, you figure it out, Warren."
"Well, to be fair, in the past if ever you took ill, rather than canceling appointments, you'd simply leave whatever impression you desired in the minds of those with whom you were due to speak.. So I gather, at any rate," Warren comments off handedly, as he languidly takes unrushed steps toward the same window, still half a room distant. "Which leads me to conclude, that either you had business that required your presence elsewhere- which I suspect not to be the case, given your seemingly fixed location over the past few days.. Or, you are afflicted with a previously unprecedented bout of headaches. In either case, I may guess that the evening of the benefit ball was the turning point. How are my steps so far?"
"Perfect, as always. Though the illusion is broken, darling. You forget I know all about your dance teacher. You may report back to her whatever you wish." Emma withdraws and moves back toward the door.
Whether permitted, designed, or genuine, a brief slicker of surprise draws up both blonde brows. 'Teacher', 'report', 'her'. There are a finite number of references Emma could be making. "Jean?" A moment of silent consideration, before he chose his next words, voiced before Emma leaves the room. "I suppose it was the height of folly to think we could speak without that old bargain coming up," he notes looking out the window, to decide whether there was anything interesting Emma had been looking at. A sniper perhaps, ready to remove cumbersome callers with wings? "If you wished, you could tell simply by looking that I've not spoken with her since our little falling out... Ah, but of course, I am a marvelous liar, aren’t I? Surely you can't trust a thing I'm thinking." Even as he said it, Warren knew that sentiment was petty... though he had no means of knowing how wrongly he'd read Emma's snapped retort.
Emma flinches at the assumption, taken as a barbed jab, and turns around, quickly covered hurt dissolving into anger. "You have more nerve than is good for you, Warren Worthington," she hisses, blinking back hot tears.
Ah the boundless wilds of miscommunication that mere speech allows for. Turning cooly to face Emma's flashing anger, Warren squares his winged shoulders to the woman, and replies, "Nerve is another thing I've not lacked for. 'Ambition beyond Heaven' remember?" Slowly steps are taken closer as he goes on, "But don't place this hurt upon me, Emma Frost... not this time. If my nerve stings, remember well that today it is your doing. You let me in, you insisted on this mockery of a waltz, when all I wanted to know was 'Are you alright?'" Warren's composure is intact, but strained. "You could have ended this with a thought, but you chose not to... So if it pains, lay it not on my head." Blue gaze hardening, he stops his words.
"Are you enjoying this, Warren? What kind of enjoyment are you getting out of taunting me like that?" Emma snaps, tension washing over her, frame trembling and a tear escaping that she wipes at furiously. "Damn you. /Damn you/," she mutters as she drops her face and turns away to hide how close she is to breaking.
In that moment, Warren knows he misstepped somewhere. Angry at her for this whole mess, and angry at himself for the reaction her trembling tears elicit. He shouldn’t want to comfort her, as she turns away. "Enjoyment?" he echoes dryly. What possible enjoyment could be had from this, save in it's end?" An angry purse to his lips as he looks away from her, stalling in his forward steps. She keeps saying these things, asking these questions of him as though- a pause. As though she didn’t know. Quietly, as he drags his gaze back to the painful sight of Emma, voice even in tone, "Emma... what happened?"
"You're not fooling me. I know you know. Get out, Warren. It's not funny, and it's beneath you," Emma murmurs, taking another step towards the door, her movements slow and clumsy, as if she were trudging through molasses.
"I wonder," Warren murmurs in reply, "Why we armor ourselves so thick in layers of suspicion, when we manage to become so broken despite them." A shake of his head as he looks away, "Suit yourself, my dear. If I've overstayed whatever welcome I might have had, I'll be gone. My nerve doesn’t run that deep yet.." Besides, Emma’s snapped comment of a moment ago gave him someone else he could ask about this... A bow, likely unseen as Emma's back is turned, and the once-angel turns to the door.
Emma reaches for the knob and pulls the door open, stepping behind the door as she opens it for him. "Sometimes they are the only thing that keep us from dissolving completely when we /are/ broken," she answers, lifting defiant and glistening eyes to his.
"And sometimes they are the very things which keep us from mending," Warren replies, gaze bright and focused upon hers in that one long moment wherein two wills matched, and held. Myriads of sentiments go unspoken in that moment. Few, if any would be trusted, and none can be heard. So, the moment passes in silence, and he steps out.
Emma frowns, holding his gaze, frustrated with the limits to her communication, uncertain about how to express what she's loath to say, and desperate to feel his presence. She breaks the look at the same time he does, turning her head away and shutting the door after him. Only then are tears allowed to fall.
I think I'll die, locked into this shell.
Alone. Truly and completely alone.
1/31/2006
Logfile from Emma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
The heart of the White Queen's rule reflects her color and her taste. Spotless white carpet covers the floor, and flawless white paint coats the walls, all but the outer one, which boasts a single, huge picture window that surveys the gardens and the East River beyond them. A lushly upholstered couch in the corner offers a perch for enjoying that view or simply relaxing, with an end table and lamp at hand for reading.
The furniture is as minimalist and modern as the décor. The desk is a single slab of brushed aluminum, curving down and under itself for support. A trio of ultra-slim flat-panel displays extends out of the desk's surface on articulated arms adjustable to any orientation; touch-sensitive panels supplant keyboard and mouse for a variety of interface options. The computer itself lies behind a wall: easily accessible when needed and discreetly invisible when not. A sweeping throne of a chair sits behind the desk, its seat and back crafted of brushed aluminum to match the desk. Two rather more modest chairs crouch in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests.
All is well. And then the electricity shuts off, rather as if someone outside has thrown an immense switch and blacked out an entire wing of the clubhouse. In the meanwhile, black overcoat furling in the winter wind, helmet gripped under his right arm, down steps Erik Lensherr onto an isolated balcony, not three rooms down from the illustrious White Queen's Hellfire office. The door waved open (and off its hinges to tumble over the balcony edge and down into the hedges below) Erik thumps on into the building, and down the hall for Emma's office.
All is not well. Not really. But the appearance of wellness is enough. Appearance often is. Startled from her reverie by the dimming of lights and sounds, Emma jerks to attention in her chair and reaches for her intercom. Which of course doesn't work. No matter. Pawns will arrive within seconds, certainly. She inhales deeply, attempting to slow an already racing heart and listens for and to approaching footsteps, locked to physical senses alone.
Thump, thump, thump. A shout, before another door can be thrown off its hinges and flung into the first pawn on the scene. A crash, something breaking. Door and pawn hit the far wall, then the floor. Erik steps over both (neither seems inclined to move any further) and, for once, tries the office door.
It's unlocked, and that habit really needs to be re-examined. But it /is/ open. No need to deface more property! Emma pushes to her feet at the first crash, wild-eyed and panicked. The second spurs action, sending her around the desk and across the room to reach for the closest thing to a weapon she has in the room- heavy silver candlesticks set to one side of the mantle place, and then to the side of the door as it turns and opens. "Whoever you are, I wouldn't move if you value your life," she bluffs.
Erik, somewhat baffled by this development, doesn't move, if only because he isn't entirely certain of what he should do. At the sound of scuffling, running footsteps on the approach, he goes ahead and steps in anyway, closing the door behind him with a look at Emma that says very clearly, 'Or what?'
"Shit!" Emma exclaims as he steps into view, and the candlestick is dropped as if it were heated lead. "Of course it had to be you," she mutters, backing up and step to lean against the wall, heading tipping up and eyes closing, breath coming on shaky gasps. "Don't you ever just call /ahead/?"
Again, mild startlement is evident in Erik's reactions to Emma's, his back and shoulders going rigid as he straightens his posture and lifts his brows slightly back at her. "I would, but the one time I /did/ attempt to make prior arrangements with a business contact here, I woke up in prison." Having found it in himself to move once again, he side-glances suspiciously across the office at Emma and thumps his helmet down into her desk. "You're looking a little more human than usual."
Oh. Yeah. /That/. Emma growls at the assessment and slits her eyes open to glare balefully at him. "What the hell is /that/ supposed to mean? And speaking of your recent prison stint, what the hell are you doing /here/?"
"I'm not sure. Listen to yourself, and then you tell me." Erik mutters, head turning back towards the door once the voices outside it become more audible. "These things are documented in the papers, you know. That's what they're for. Call off your people."
"I didn't ask what you were doing out. Just /here/," Emma snaps, pushing off the wall and jerking the door open to yell a dismissal at the approaching security. That done, and the door closed again with a small slam, she turns back to him, the heel of one hand reaching up to scrub at her temple and a pinched expression on her face. "I don't want to play games, Erik. I'm not up for them."
As the door is opened and security is called off, Erik is left to stare blandly after her. He flinches slightly at the slam, snapped out of observation, to lift the candlestick with little more than a distracted lift of his right hand. The metal seems inclined to do the rest itself, stretching and distorting after Emma. Trying to get around her neck.
Her eyes flick to the side just before cold, metallic fingers slide around her neck. She doesn't fight it, much. Just slides her fingers around the band, trying to force fingers between it and skin. "What will you gain by my death?" she wheezes quietly.
Magneto doesn't reply. Instead, he draws his helmet back into himself from across the office, catching it with both hands before he looks back at her. "Nothing. What is wrong with your telepathy?"
Emma smirks, a difficult feat over the chin lifting pressure of metal and fingers, and an expression that holds no amusement all. "Jean."
"Mmm, well. From the reports my people have been bringing me, you are lucky that you have a functioning brain at all." Erik replies without missing a beat, though the icy glint of his glare does soften. Very slightly. "But that, I'm afraid, is a discussion for another time." Back against the wall, the metal around her neck jerks her, so that he can bear down upon her without worrying about further physical attempts at retaliation. "I was told that you were somewhat uncooperative in your dealings with Mystique in my absence."
Emma chokes and stumbles as she's pulled off balance and back, gasping against the constriction and blinking to clear her eyes of spots, leaving them closed and sagging slightly. "Yes," she answers, inhaling deeply before continuing. "She wanted your money, and I didn't give it to her." She slips, her heel caught on the hem of her pants.
"My dear, the only individual I keep /alive/ that I am concerned about backstabbing me on a regular basis is /you/." Voice dropping to a near growl as he draws near, it's clear from closer inspection that he is either very tired, or very hungover. Perhaps both, with dark circles around his eyes and a general hollowness about his face. "You were /well/ aware of my situation."
"Which is why moving a large portion of your..." She inhales a gasp and continues, "money wasn't a good idea. Erik. Everyone," another breath, "was aware of your situation. Moving it would put... /everyone/ you do business with at ... risk."
As she continues to talk, the ring of silver lifts a good inch or two at Erik's direction, forcing her up onto her toes, if she wants to keep breathing with any semblance of regularity. "She also said that you did not seem particularly put out by what happened. Tell me, how is it that you failed to notice such a massive operation being set up upon your very lawn?"
"I... wasn't... /here/," Emma gasps, indeed pushing up onto tiptoe.
"How terribly convenient." Erik mutters, head tilting in idle observation of her evident misery. He sighs a moment later, and the ring pulls itself abruptly apart, releasing her.
Emma slumps out of its grasp and continues the motion down the wall, ending up in a tired, emotionless huddle. "Where do you want the money transferred? I have about two-thirds converted," she asks tonelessly after a moment.
"I will have someone call you." Helmet shifted to turn serenely in the air above his upturned left hand, Erik uses the right to rub tiredly over his face. "How long is this going to last?"
"Another four to six weeks. The last set of funds dropped significantly in value and so required a little more finesse," Emma answers, gaining her feet again, using the wall as support. "Unless you don't care about the loss?" She keeps her eyes averted and tone respectful, but sneaks an assessing glance at him before adding softly. "Do you want to sit down?"
"That isn't what I meant." Grudging and weary, Erik shifts at her question, dropping down into the first chair that happens into his vicinity.
"Then what did you mean?" Her voice rises and threatens to quiver, but she bites down hard on it. "I'm sorry, Erik. I can't read your mind, after all," she says, smiling bitterly.
"If you think I enjoy coming in here and torturing you for information, you are sadly mistaken." Irritation rising again, Erik pulls in a deep breath and forces himself to settle, his glare still boring into her across the room. "How long ago did Jean attack?"
"But you do it so often," Emma chirps brittly, then sighs and crosses to deposit herself in the chair opposite him, elbows on her knees and head cradled between her hands. "Saturday night. She showed up at a benefit and..." A hand moves free to make a vague hand, then returns.
Leaning far to the right once his helmet has been deposited in his lap, Erik throws one leg over the other and rests his head on a waiting hand, slacks pulling high to reveal a combat boot in place of the sort of more practical shoe one would normally wear with a suit. Her first comment is flatly ignored. "And she did it telepathically?"
"Telepathically, telekinetically, I don't know. I can't even assess my own damage. All I know is that I'm... crippled," she answers, frustrated, running her fingers through her hair as she sits up straight and grasps for her composure with visible effort. "It's like I'm hollow, and everyone else, /you/, are a cardboard cutout."
"I should think mine is not a mind any sane person would want to spend time in anyway." Eyes rolling closed, Erik massages his paired fingers into his temple. "Have you considered contacting Charles?"
Emma watches the motion for a moment, then stands and crosses to a cabinet behind her desk. "I /don't/ spend much time there, Erik. But ever since I was sixteen, there's been a..." She stops and exhales, hanging onto the door of the cabinet. The moment passes, and she reaches inside, withdrawing a pharmaceutical vial. "Forgive me. I'm still having trouble keeping the thread of my thoughts." She shakes out a pill and breaks it in half, returning one to the vial, and clasping the other in her hand as she leans over and reaches into a secreted refrigerator for a bottle of water. "Anyhow... a 'substance' to their presence. Something that is uniquely them." She closes both doors and turns back, working back around the desk and holding both pill and bottle out to him. "I have. Briefly. But considering it was his pet pupil..."
Magneto opens his eyes at the sound of her approach, glare lifting to the pill, and then to Emma before he sits up a little straighter and reaches for it. Then the water. "He will know what is happening. If he can admit it to himself, that is. He might help you out of /guilt/, if nothing else, even if it is only to determine how the deed was accomplished." Water bottle cap unscrewed, Erik squints only briefly at the pill before popping it into his mouth and swallowing it down. "Who else knows about this?"
Emma's lips quirk at the examination, but she holds her tongue until his question requires a reply. "Sebastian. My personal assistant. Jean."
One more sip of water taken for good measure, Erik recaps the bottle and drops it lazily into the seat next to him before reassuming his leaning posture. "And Jean was, what? Unreasonable? Insane?"
"Catty." Emma leans back against the edge of the desk, hands gripping its edge. "She was perfectly sane, perfectly reasoned. Except for the part where she was acting completely out of character."
"Mystique witnessed her performing a pair of impromptu lobotomies on the street, via telekinesis. Another of my recruits was broken telepathically and forced to carry a message back to me with broken ribs and soiled trousers."
"Well. Saint Grey has gone on quite the little rampage, hasn't she?" Emma snarks, lip curling. "I know of at least one other incident, and one that she appears to be contemplating."
"Mmm." says Erik, smiling faintly, and largely to himself. "Being in prison has limited my ability to take full advantage of the intelligence available to me. Did she want anything from you?"
Emma mews slightly, giving an appearance of appropriate sympathy, then shrugging at the question. "Mmm. I'd have to say no. Not that I remember every little detail of our conversation, you understand. But no, it appeared she just doesn't like me."
Magneto shifts, gaze moving away from Emma as he turns various thoughts over in his head. The water at his side sloshes quietly.
Emma keeps her eyes on his face, trying desperately to read his face without the benefit of also reading his emotions and thoughts. Finally, she asks instead, voice soft and hesitant. "Erik? What are you thinking?"
"That I am sorry. I could have been more patient, I suppose. Or made some effort to discipline you when you were younger..." Glancing back over to her, Erik looks away again and pushes off the chair, up onto his feet. "Anyway. I have things to see to."
Emma blinks and straightens, confused by the reply. She slides to her feet as he stands and gnaws on her lower lip, nodding. "I'll wait to hear from you, then."
"Not from me. One of the individuals involved in the transfer, more than likely." And with that and a nod, helmet swept back to his side and water left behind, Erik heads for the door.
1/31/2006
Early afternoon on this crisp New York day. Just past the hour when one's breath has stopped turning to mist, when the winged form of Warren Worthington turns his long, even strides toward a place long abandoned: the office of his once and nominal Queen. Pausing to direct a lingering look about the hallway, he does not dwell long in recollection before approaching Emma's door directly.
Evidence of damage freshly repaired and created litter the hall, two workers re-hanging one door of two that have been pulled free of their hinges. Emma's door, however, is undamaged.
His composure is unfaltering at the sight. Appearances being everything, no matter how confused one might be, the appearance of understanding and control can make all the difference.. except of course, when telepaths are involved. Paying the workers only the briefest of attentions, Warren moves to the door left intact, and reaches a hand for the knob, forgoing his customary knock. With others present to see, it simply wouldn’t do to ask and be rebuffed...
Considering the nasty habit people have of dripping by uninvited, it's not surprising that the door is locked. A pawn rounds the corner at the end of the hall and nearly squeaks to see his mistress about to be disturbed. He scurries forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Worthington. Can I help you?"
Warren looks to note the pawn's approach, holding his words until the young man in within proper conversational distance- A harmless little boy at her door. He ought'nt be surprised. "Yes, you may, thank you. I wish to call upon Miss Frost." The hand upon the door is drawn unhurriedly back, and meets it's opposite at the small of the winged gentleman's back. Idly, Warren notes that he doesn’t recall this particular pawn before him.. How quickly things change.
The seemingly harmless little boy turns and knocks for him. Emma opens the door a moment later, and glances past his shoulder to the wings filling the view of the hall. Tired and dressed in clothes designed for comfort instead of style, she's oddly not surprised to see him. "Yes, I see. Thank you," she says dismissively, moving away and pulling the door open behind her. She's nearly across the room before Warren can enter. "Has an announcement gone out, or am I really to believe this is pure coincidence?"
"Coincidence? Hardly. Not when simple observation will suffice so wonderfully.." Warren replies with a smile as Emma appears at the door, and turns across the room in an instant. His thoughts remain silent, as he steps in, letting the door go closed upon his passing. "you seclude yourself, and cancel appointments.. Sebastian comes calling, and departs in less than the most composed of states.. I may lack for much, Emma dear, but I still have eyes." The details of her appearance are noted swiftly, before blue eyes return to seek out blue. "Will you tell me, or shall we dance for it?" he inquires simply, smile faded as soon as the door swung shut, yet not wholly gone.
"Eyes in the back of your head, you mean. I thought I had rooted out the pawns loyal to you, but obviously I missed one," Emma snaps, running fingers through her hair and lacing them behind her neck as she turns to look out the window. "If you're so clever, you figure it out, Warren."
"Well, to be fair, in the past if ever you took ill, rather than canceling appointments, you'd simply leave whatever impression you desired in the minds of those with whom you were due to speak.. So I gather, at any rate," Warren comments off handedly, as he languidly takes unrushed steps toward the same window, still half a room distant. "Which leads me to conclude, that either you had business that required your presence elsewhere- which I suspect not to be the case, given your seemingly fixed location over the past few days.. Or, you are afflicted with a previously unprecedented bout of headaches. In either case, I may guess that the evening of the benefit ball was the turning point. How are my steps so far?"
"Perfect, as always. Though the illusion is broken, darling. You forget I know all about your dance teacher. You may report back to her whatever you wish." Emma withdraws and moves back toward the door.
Whether permitted, designed, or genuine, a brief slicker of surprise draws up both blonde brows. 'Teacher', 'report', 'her'. There are a finite number of references Emma could be making. "Jean?" A moment of silent consideration, before he chose his next words, voiced before Emma leaves the room. "I suppose it was the height of folly to think we could speak without that old bargain coming up," he notes looking out the window, to decide whether there was anything interesting Emma had been looking at. A sniper perhaps, ready to remove cumbersome callers with wings? "If you wished, you could tell simply by looking that I've not spoken with her since our little falling out... Ah, but of course, I am a marvelous liar, aren’t I? Surely you can't trust a thing I'm thinking." Even as he said it, Warren knew that sentiment was petty... though he had no means of knowing how wrongly he'd read Emma's snapped retort.
Emma flinches at the assumption, taken as a barbed jab, and turns around, quickly covered hurt dissolving into anger. "You have more nerve than is good for you, Warren Worthington," she hisses, blinking back hot tears.
Ah the boundless wilds of miscommunication that mere speech allows for. Turning cooly to face Emma's flashing anger, Warren squares his winged shoulders to the woman, and replies, "Nerve is another thing I've not lacked for. 'Ambition beyond Heaven' remember?" Slowly steps are taken closer as he goes on, "But don't place this hurt upon me, Emma Frost... not this time. If my nerve stings, remember well that today it is your doing. You let me in, you insisted on this mockery of a waltz, when all I wanted to know was 'Are you alright?'" Warren's composure is intact, but strained. "You could have ended this with a thought, but you chose not to... So if it pains, lay it not on my head." Blue gaze hardening, he stops his words.
"Are you enjoying this, Warren? What kind of enjoyment are you getting out of taunting me like that?" Emma snaps, tension washing over her, frame trembling and a tear escaping that she wipes at furiously. "Damn you. /Damn you/," she mutters as she drops her face and turns away to hide how close she is to breaking.
In that moment, Warren knows he misstepped somewhere. Angry at her for this whole mess, and angry at himself for the reaction her trembling tears elicit. He shouldn’t want to comfort her, as she turns away. "Enjoyment?" he echoes dryly. What possible enjoyment could be had from this, save in it's end?" An angry purse to his lips as he looks away from her, stalling in his forward steps. She keeps saying these things, asking these questions of him as though- a pause. As though she didn’t know. Quietly, as he drags his gaze back to the painful sight of Emma, voice even in tone, "Emma... what happened?"
"You're not fooling me. I know you know. Get out, Warren. It's not funny, and it's beneath you," Emma murmurs, taking another step towards the door, her movements slow and clumsy, as if she were trudging through molasses.
"I wonder," Warren murmurs in reply, "Why we armor ourselves so thick in layers of suspicion, when we manage to become so broken despite them." A shake of his head as he looks away, "Suit yourself, my dear. If I've overstayed whatever welcome I might have had, I'll be gone. My nerve doesn’t run that deep yet.." Besides, Emma’s snapped comment of a moment ago gave him someone else he could ask about this... A bow, likely unseen as Emma's back is turned, and the once-angel turns to the door.
Emma reaches for the knob and pulls the door open, stepping behind the door as she opens it for him. "Sometimes they are the only thing that keep us from dissolving completely when we /are/ broken," she answers, lifting defiant and glistening eyes to his.
"And sometimes they are the very things which keep us from mending," Warren replies, gaze bright and focused upon hers in that one long moment wherein two wills matched, and held. Myriads of sentiments go unspoken in that moment. Few, if any would be trusted, and none can be heard. So, the moment passes in silence, and he steps out.
Emma frowns, holding his gaze, frustrated with the limits to her communication, uncertain about how to express what she's loath to say, and desperate to feel his presence. She breaks the look at the same time he does, turning her head away and shutting the door after him. Only then are tears allowed to fall.