(no subject)
I can't keep doing this, crying into anyone's shoulder. I have to find my equilibrium.
Meditation is a little easier now. I can see my thoughts at least. At least while they are in my head. Then they disappear into the ether.
What do I owe Percy now for a night of old and simple comforts? For a night of make-believe?
How do people do this? Living without the connection to others? I had forgotten what it was like, before.
It's hell. It's hell, and what if...
Last night...
Here's looking at you, kid. [Percy]
Today...
1/31/2006
Logfile from Emma
When you own your own business, you can keep your own hours. When you own Frost Enterprises, you don't have to keep any. At least in theory. But paperwork always has to be signed, deals made, partners soothed. It's been a trying few hours already, and Emma escaped after handling the crises, saving the emergencies for later. She keys an entry code and sails through the unlocked door, shedding gloves and coat immediately.
The room is still semi-dark, but after a moment, a voice carries out of one of its corners, followed by Travis' figure. "I was hoping you'd be back soon," is his accompanying comment.
"SHIT!" Her purse goes flying in the direction of the voice, and she stumbles backwards in the direction opposite.
Just like that, Travis steps out fully into the light, one hand snatching the purse from its freefall. "My apologies, Ms. Frost," he offers, extending her purse back. "I didn't intend to startle you as such. Just to...prove or disprove a rumor."
"Hell, Travis," Emma gasps, blinking and inhaling a series of deep breathes before reaching for her purse and aiming a whack at the back of his head. "I didn't think the rumors were /that/ detailed yet," she says bitterly.
"Not to the general public," Travis assures, letting the hand connect without comment. "I thought we should talk," he says, stepping around to settling in the chair facing her desk. Let her take the position opposite or not, if it helps the control issues.
"I don't want to talk. I'm /tired/ of talking," Emma complains, moving to her desk--to stand beside, not sit behind.
"Unfortunately, for people like us, our desires can't dictate our actions," Travis comments. "So you grit your teeth and force out a half-smile, while I tell you what I have learned of Jean Grey."
Emma lifts a hip onto the edge of the desk, her left hand steepling on its top for support, the other resting on the top of her lifted knee. And she smiles, a horrid, forced affair.
"Better," is all Travis comments before plunging ahead. "It is all for the appearances for Jean Grey. She continues on her routine, her work at the hospital and lab haven't suffered. Indeed, for /appearances/ it would seem the only change was a decision to return to her apartment." He pauses a moment. "Indeed, the only unexplainable action in her very normal routine are regular detours through Hell's Kitchen." Pause. "And if you're to believe some of the rumors coming from that corner of our city, that can't be coincidental. It seems Jean Grey may have adopted the mantle of vigilante."
"And? Unless she starts flying through the sky in a shrieking fireball, there's very little bad publicity there. Or is there?" Emma wonders, arching a brow.
"Well, it certainly spits in the face of her entire platform," Travis explains. "Jean Grey, proponent of mutant rights through diplomacy, peace, mutual understanding and law, and yet she has decided the NYPD is apparently inadequate in dealing with the city's problems and has taken matters into her own hands. Assuming I'm correct, of course. It's not a light meting of justice. The miscreants...well, let's just say the sex offenders won't be in danger of unwanted offspring. Ever. And the city of New York will be paying medical bills for John Doe-Thug for the next ten years as every bone is reset and casted, not to mention the rehab bills."
"Mmhmph," Emma articulately replies.
"It is mine to gather the facts," Travis says coolly. "Yours to determine a course of action. Unless you are considering revising the arrangement. Or the White Queen has admitted defeat," he adds, a touch of barb to the last.
Emma rises to the challenge, predictable and imperfectly controlled. "I'll take it under consideration, White Knight," she informs him, tones clipped and cool. "/Our/ arrangements are unaltered. But Jean Grey is also in a dangerous state of mind. I was already aware of her activities in Hell's Kitchen. Gather your evidence, and we'll /wait/."
"So be it," Travis comments, a mock bow from his seated position. "Although I've never known Emma Frost to stay her hand at retribution, no matter the strength of opponent. She took something dear to you. I expected nothing less in return."
"Have you ever known me to be /stupid/ either?" (Don't answer that!) Emma pushes off the desk and crosses the short distance between them to lean in front of him, hands on either chair arm. "If you have any ideas, speak. Otherwise, you'd do well to remember that I've had a /supremely/ bad few days."
"Jean Grey may feel herself invincible. She may be at that, where she is positioned at the moment," Travis says, fully ignoring any irritation in Emma's voice. "But she has things near and dear to her. Relations might drive her to blood rage, but... there /is/ her car... Acts of vandalism are quite difficult to trace. Even when they occur to notable persons, they rarely even make a newsline. But quick retribution, and instilling a sense of... vulnerability to the invulnerable."
Emma eyes him, the choler receding into a vague thoughtfulness. She nods, not moving from her position trapping Travis in the chair. "Do it."
"Consider it done," Travis says. "There will be nothing to trace. Her mental acuity will not read anything from dented fenders or smashed glass." He crosses his arms, watching her movements or lack thereof. "Were my services needed for anything else..." he asks after a moment.
"Unless you have any other suggestions," Emma bandies back, straightening, lids lowering lashes veil. She folds her arms in front of her and shifts her weight to one hip.
"I know two hundred and three ways to take your mind off your problems," Travis says, his voice not wavering a fraction of a soundwave.
"Too bad you don't know as many to take the problem off my mind," Emma murmurs, then leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek before moving past the chair and around the other. "Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. You can see yourself out, I'm sure."
"All in good time, Ms. Frost," Travis stands, brushing a bit of chair lint off his jacket. "One battle at a time." And with that, he's gone as silently as he came.
Meditation is a little easier now. I can see my thoughts at least. At least while they are in my head. Then they disappear into the ether.
What do I owe Percy now for a night of old and simple comforts? For a night of make-believe?
How do people do this? Living without the connection to others? I had forgotten what it was like, before.
It's hell. It's hell, and what if...
Last night...
Here's looking at you, kid. [Percy]
Today...
1/31/2006
Logfile from Emma
When you own your own business, you can keep your own hours. When you own Frost Enterprises, you don't have to keep any. At least in theory. But paperwork always has to be signed, deals made, partners soothed. It's been a trying few hours already, and Emma escaped after handling the crises, saving the emergencies for later. She keys an entry code and sails through the unlocked door, shedding gloves and coat immediately.
The room is still semi-dark, but after a moment, a voice carries out of one of its corners, followed by Travis' figure. "I was hoping you'd be back soon," is his accompanying comment.
"SHIT!" Her purse goes flying in the direction of the voice, and she stumbles backwards in the direction opposite.
Just like that, Travis steps out fully into the light, one hand snatching the purse from its freefall. "My apologies, Ms. Frost," he offers, extending her purse back. "I didn't intend to startle you as such. Just to...prove or disprove a rumor."
"Hell, Travis," Emma gasps, blinking and inhaling a series of deep breathes before reaching for her purse and aiming a whack at the back of his head. "I didn't think the rumors were /that/ detailed yet," she says bitterly.
"Not to the general public," Travis assures, letting the hand connect without comment. "I thought we should talk," he says, stepping around to settling in the chair facing her desk. Let her take the position opposite or not, if it helps the control issues.
"I don't want to talk. I'm /tired/ of talking," Emma complains, moving to her desk--to stand beside, not sit behind.
"Unfortunately, for people like us, our desires can't dictate our actions," Travis comments. "So you grit your teeth and force out a half-smile, while I tell you what I have learned of Jean Grey."
Emma lifts a hip onto the edge of the desk, her left hand steepling on its top for support, the other resting on the top of her lifted knee. And she smiles, a horrid, forced affair.
"Better," is all Travis comments before plunging ahead. "It is all for the appearances for Jean Grey. She continues on her routine, her work at the hospital and lab haven't suffered. Indeed, for /appearances/ it would seem the only change was a decision to return to her apartment." He pauses a moment. "Indeed, the only unexplainable action in her very normal routine are regular detours through Hell's Kitchen." Pause. "And if you're to believe some of the rumors coming from that corner of our city, that can't be coincidental. It seems Jean Grey may have adopted the mantle of vigilante."
"And? Unless she starts flying through the sky in a shrieking fireball, there's very little bad publicity there. Or is there?" Emma wonders, arching a brow.
"Well, it certainly spits in the face of her entire platform," Travis explains. "Jean Grey, proponent of mutant rights through diplomacy, peace, mutual understanding and law, and yet she has decided the NYPD is apparently inadequate in dealing with the city's problems and has taken matters into her own hands. Assuming I'm correct, of course. It's not a light meting of justice. The miscreants...well, let's just say the sex offenders won't be in danger of unwanted offspring. Ever. And the city of New York will be paying medical bills for John Doe-Thug for the next ten years as every bone is reset and casted, not to mention the rehab bills."
"Mmhmph," Emma articulately replies.
"It is mine to gather the facts," Travis says coolly. "Yours to determine a course of action. Unless you are considering revising the arrangement. Or the White Queen has admitted defeat," he adds, a touch of barb to the last.
Emma rises to the challenge, predictable and imperfectly controlled. "I'll take it under consideration, White Knight," she informs him, tones clipped and cool. "/Our/ arrangements are unaltered. But Jean Grey is also in a dangerous state of mind. I was already aware of her activities in Hell's Kitchen. Gather your evidence, and we'll /wait/."
"So be it," Travis comments, a mock bow from his seated position. "Although I've never known Emma Frost to stay her hand at retribution, no matter the strength of opponent. She took something dear to you. I expected nothing less in return."
"Have you ever known me to be /stupid/ either?" (Don't answer that!) Emma pushes off the desk and crosses the short distance between them to lean in front of him, hands on either chair arm. "If you have any ideas, speak. Otherwise, you'd do well to remember that I've had a /supremely/ bad few days."
"Jean Grey may feel herself invincible. She may be at that, where she is positioned at the moment," Travis says, fully ignoring any irritation in Emma's voice. "But she has things near and dear to her. Relations might drive her to blood rage, but... there /is/ her car... Acts of vandalism are quite difficult to trace. Even when they occur to notable persons, they rarely even make a newsline. But quick retribution, and instilling a sense of... vulnerability to the invulnerable."
Emma eyes him, the choler receding into a vague thoughtfulness. She nods, not moving from her position trapping Travis in the chair. "Do it."
"Consider it done," Travis says. "There will be nothing to trace. Her mental acuity will not read anything from dented fenders or smashed glass." He crosses his arms, watching her movements or lack thereof. "Were my services needed for anything else..." he asks after a moment.
"Unless you have any other suggestions," Emma bandies back, straightening, lids lowering lashes veil. She folds her arms in front of her and shifts her weight to one hip.
"I know two hundred and three ways to take your mind off your problems," Travis says, his voice not wavering a fraction of a soundwave.
"Too bad you don't know as many to take the problem off my mind," Emma murmurs, then leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek before moving past the chair and around the other. "Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. You can see yourself out, I'm sure."
"All in good time, Ms. Frost," Travis stands, brushing a bit of chair lint off his jacket. "One battle at a time." And with that, he's gone as silently as he came.