Coffeeshop
Text to Adel:
Have you been playing mindgames with anyone large and Russian lately?
12/14/2006
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Frost Enterprises - Financial District
Bzzzzt. "There's a Scott Summers requesting to see you, Ms. Frost," the secretary's voice sounds over the voice system, her mouth covered from view by a well-practiced hand, voice pitched loud enough to be caught without carrying. "Shall I send him up?"
Emma stops in the middle of her presentation to a group of nervous corporate types whose business is about to be taken over by Frost Enterprises (whether that take over is friendly or hostile remains to be seen) and looks back at the phone on her desk blankly. Her arm drops, as does her jaw, it must be admitted. "Just a moment, gentlemen," she murmurs and crosses to the phone to press the intercom button. "Are you /serious/? No, don't answer," she interrupts herself, her own powers verifying the X-Men leader's presence. "No. Ask him to wait. I'll be down in..." A quick look at the assembled group, and then, "Tell him to await me at the coffeehouse on the corner. I'll be an hour."
The message is relayed to the waiting with an aire of dismissal. Scott takes it in stride, with a nod and polite thank you, before exiting the building. He wanders the area for forty minutes, give or take forty seconds, before making his way to the coffee shop. Early, of course, he orders a drink and procures a corner table, facing the room and more importantly, the entrance. And there he waits, occasionally sipping his coffee, but mostly just waiting.
Scott is always early, and Emma is always late. She planned it too this time, sweeping into the coffeeshop with a tiny curl to her lip and an expression that could have been carved from marble. Without even a hesitation to locate him in the room, she crosses to his corner table and comes to a stop beside it and looks down at him. Her fingers twitch the immaculate, snowy planes of her skirt clear of the the table's edge; she doesn't say a word.
"Hello, Emma," Scott greets, looking up at her for a long moment, then back in front of him and the empty chair. Which he makes no attempt to offer. She will sit or not sit of her own will, of that he's confident. "I appreciate your meeting me. I wasn't certain you would." There's a moment's awkward pause, and he adds a "You're looking well."
"That is the point," Emma replies coldly, dropping down to slide into the chair and lean back, folding one knee over the other, her pointed-toe show settling dangerously near his leg under the table. A bit of the dampness picked up from the sidewalk outside is drawn to the fibers of his pants. One hand grips the edge of her seat, and she leans on it straight armed. The other simple rests in her lap. "Oh, I've always had time for you, darling," she purrs, her voice the only heated thing about her.
Scott stiffens at the movement near his leg, but he restrains himself from shifting positions to move away. Or closer. Habit, and all, both. But oh, how it it nags at the corner of his mind. Still, resist. He clears his throat, the sudden planned topics for small talk playing fickle and fleeing his reach. Fine, be that way. "There was...an incident recently," he finally says, business-like demeanor being the only reserve left.
"When isn't there?" she asks, boredom and disinterest masking her features and hiding the biting awareness of the situation and the participants that snaps deeply in shadowed eyes.
There's many things that can be hidden. From Scott Summers, even, but the feigned boredom he doesn't buy. Still, it's a small victory he doesn't gloat over, instead continuing with the explanation, perhaps a little less direct than he might have otherwise. "Piotr Rasputin. I believe you've met his sister, if not the man himself."
"Rasputin? Little Illyana Rasputin and her brother? The large one? Yes, I've met them both." Emma leans forward slightly and narrows her eyes with increased focus. "Why? Has she been found?" And why weren't /my/ people the ones to find her...
"She's out of your reach, Emma," Scott says slowly. "Out of all of ours. But I'm not here about Illyana. I'm here about Peter." He stops, running the memorized wording over in his mind before saying it aloud. "It would seem he fell prey to a less than scrupulous telepath."
Emma deflates just a little, almost imperceptibly, at the news, then turns her attention back to his words, as well as the careful handling of the phrasing. "What do you want to ask me, Scott?" she asks bluntly, defiantly, sitting back in the chair and folding her arms across her chest.
"I'd like to think I know the answer to this, Emma," Scott starts. He stops, gaze examining the various corners of the room not currently occupied by her, then it finally settles back on her. "But in all truth, I don't. So I still have to ask it. Did you have anything to do with this? You or your people," he adds, hoping to close off any possible loopholes in the question.
Emma puts one hand on the table and flattens it while keeping her gaze level on him. "What, precisely, is 'this'? A telepathic attack? Manipulation. /Diddling/, perhaps? I would just like to be clear of what you are accusing me. And you /are/ accusing me, are you not? Accusing me without evidence, I might add. Tell me, my precious, darling lover." Emma curve forward, lifting the hand to provide a shelf for her chin as she she closes the distance between them and lowers her voice to a resonant murmur. "Even if I told you no, you wouldn't believe me, now would you? Not against the word of your exalted Xavier. Or was it Jean, the sacred cow, who accused me?"
"I am /asking/ you, Emma," Scott says, voice stiff, an attempt to not rise to the bait. "And I wouldn't be here if I didn't expect an honest answer. Jean and the Professor have nothing to do with this. They don't even know I'm here." He pauses, thinking over the explanation of Peter's condition. "An unknown telepath apparently locked away Peter's higher--mental faculties, I suppose it could be called. Leaving him powerless to control his baser instincts."
"No," Emma answers, suddenly bored with the verbal game of cat and mouse. "Not that I'm aware of," she clarifies and straightens, shrugging a shoulder at him. "Is that it? Do you need to run home to mommy to verify now?"
"Then consider it a warning among colleagues," Scott is, as always, reserved, refusing to say the barbed responses that come to mind. Images of Sebastian Shaw and Warren Worthington, and a few choice descriptors for each float among the upper thoughts, though. "Watch your people, Emma. Whoever is responsible shows some level of sohpistication in his or her methods. They might not be content to toy with the boy's RA of a small school for runaway mutants."
Emma snorts indelicately and swats at those images with an impatient mental hand. "Then as a /colleague/, I thank you for your warning, unnecessary as I'm sure it is," she sneers and uncrosses her legs to stand. She holds there for a brief moment, fingers steepled on the tabletop and her eyes fixed on Scott with an aching hardness. "In the future, you can just add me to your email distribution list. I wouldn't want to take up anymore of your /valuable/ time with personal warnings."
Scott is quiet for some time, uncertain how to respond. But then again, internal conflict is nothing new for one Scott Summers. "If that's what you would prefer." There's a pause, then an almost hasty afterthought, "I hadn't thought it had to be that way."
Emma moves to step away, but his words hold her in place, wrapped in bands of old emotion worn so thin it's translucent to both sides of the thin line and surprise. "How did you think it could be, Scott?" she asks contemptuously. "What other way could it be? Would you /want/ it to be?"
"This came out much differently when I played it in my head," Scott admits, a small sigh escaping. "It wouldn't have to be so hostile. Or maybe that's my ideals speaking for me."
"Sorry, darling. I'm afraid it is either hot or cold for us. We just can't seem to find a middle ground," Emma replies in brittle cheer. She freezes and her brow twitches an instant before she steps back close to bend over and lift his face up to her kiss with her hand. It is long and enticing, and when she's finished, she separates enough to breath against his lips, "Your ideals always were so adorable." And then she straightens and turns to leave.
Scott stiffens at first, then the part of him knowing this full well leans in, relaxing with the kiss, despite the mind raging against it. The mind wins in the end, and he starts to pull back just before she breaks away. "Emma," he starts to speak, interrupting himself of the many things he could and might say. Finally, he settles with a dispassionate "Take care of yourself."
<< I always do, >> is whispered into his mind, his thoughts turned away with a caressing touch to allow the response to enter. She does not look back.
Scott doesn't look away. For a long time, he simply sits there, staring at the path of her departure. Much longer than it takes his coffee to cool.
Scott calls Emma up to see how, and what, she's been doing.
Have you been playing mindgames with anyone large and Russian lately?
12/14/2006
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Frost Enterprises - Financial District
Bzzzzt. "There's a Scott Summers requesting to see you, Ms. Frost," the secretary's voice sounds over the voice system, her mouth covered from view by a well-practiced hand, voice pitched loud enough to be caught without carrying. "Shall I send him up?"
Emma stops in the middle of her presentation to a group of nervous corporate types whose business is about to be taken over by Frost Enterprises (whether that take over is friendly or hostile remains to be seen) and looks back at the phone on her desk blankly. Her arm drops, as does her jaw, it must be admitted. "Just a moment, gentlemen," she murmurs and crosses to the phone to press the intercom button. "Are you /serious/? No, don't answer," she interrupts herself, her own powers verifying the X-Men leader's presence. "No. Ask him to wait. I'll be down in..." A quick look at the assembled group, and then, "Tell him to await me at the coffeehouse on the corner. I'll be an hour."
The message is relayed to the waiting with an aire of dismissal. Scott takes it in stride, with a nod and polite thank you, before exiting the building. He wanders the area for forty minutes, give or take forty seconds, before making his way to the coffee shop. Early, of course, he orders a drink and procures a corner table, facing the room and more importantly, the entrance. And there he waits, occasionally sipping his coffee, but mostly just waiting.
Scott is always early, and Emma is always late. She planned it too this time, sweeping into the coffeeshop with a tiny curl to her lip and an expression that could have been carved from marble. Without even a hesitation to locate him in the room, she crosses to his corner table and comes to a stop beside it and looks down at him. Her fingers twitch the immaculate, snowy planes of her skirt clear of the the table's edge; she doesn't say a word.
"Hello, Emma," Scott greets, looking up at her for a long moment, then back in front of him and the empty chair. Which he makes no attempt to offer. She will sit or not sit of her own will, of that he's confident. "I appreciate your meeting me. I wasn't certain you would." There's a moment's awkward pause, and he adds a "You're looking well."
"That is the point," Emma replies coldly, dropping down to slide into the chair and lean back, folding one knee over the other, her pointed-toe show settling dangerously near his leg under the table. A bit of the dampness picked up from the sidewalk outside is drawn to the fibers of his pants. One hand grips the edge of her seat, and she leans on it straight armed. The other simple rests in her lap. "Oh, I've always had time for you, darling," she purrs, her voice the only heated thing about her.
Scott stiffens at the movement near his leg, but he restrains himself from shifting positions to move away. Or closer. Habit, and all, both. But oh, how it it nags at the corner of his mind. Still, resist. He clears his throat, the sudden planned topics for small talk playing fickle and fleeing his reach. Fine, be that way. "There was...an incident recently," he finally says, business-like demeanor being the only reserve left.
"When isn't there?" she asks, boredom and disinterest masking her features and hiding the biting awareness of the situation and the participants that snaps deeply in shadowed eyes.
There's many things that can be hidden. From Scott Summers, even, but the feigned boredom he doesn't buy. Still, it's a small victory he doesn't gloat over, instead continuing with the explanation, perhaps a little less direct than he might have otherwise. "Piotr Rasputin. I believe you've met his sister, if not the man himself."
"Rasputin? Little Illyana Rasputin and her brother? The large one? Yes, I've met them both." Emma leans forward slightly and narrows her eyes with increased focus. "Why? Has she been found?" And why weren't /my/ people the ones to find her...
"She's out of your reach, Emma," Scott says slowly. "Out of all of ours. But I'm not here about Illyana. I'm here about Peter." He stops, running the memorized wording over in his mind before saying it aloud. "It would seem he fell prey to a less than scrupulous telepath."
Emma deflates just a little, almost imperceptibly, at the news, then turns her attention back to his words, as well as the careful handling of the phrasing. "What do you want to ask me, Scott?" she asks bluntly, defiantly, sitting back in the chair and folding her arms across her chest.
"I'd like to think I know the answer to this, Emma," Scott starts. He stops, gaze examining the various corners of the room not currently occupied by her, then it finally settles back on her. "But in all truth, I don't. So I still have to ask it. Did you have anything to do with this? You or your people," he adds, hoping to close off any possible loopholes in the question.
Emma puts one hand on the table and flattens it while keeping her gaze level on him. "What, precisely, is 'this'? A telepathic attack? Manipulation. /Diddling/, perhaps? I would just like to be clear of what you are accusing me. And you /are/ accusing me, are you not? Accusing me without evidence, I might add. Tell me, my precious, darling lover." Emma curve forward, lifting the hand to provide a shelf for her chin as she she closes the distance between them and lowers her voice to a resonant murmur. "Even if I told you no, you wouldn't believe me, now would you? Not against the word of your exalted Xavier. Or was it Jean, the sacred cow, who accused me?"
"I am /asking/ you, Emma," Scott says, voice stiff, an attempt to not rise to the bait. "And I wouldn't be here if I didn't expect an honest answer. Jean and the Professor have nothing to do with this. They don't even know I'm here." He pauses, thinking over the explanation of Peter's condition. "An unknown telepath apparently locked away Peter's higher--mental faculties, I suppose it could be called. Leaving him powerless to control his baser instincts."
"No," Emma answers, suddenly bored with the verbal game of cat and mouse. "Not that I'm aware of," she clarifies and straightens, shrugging a shoulder at him. "Is that it? Do you need to run home to mommy to verify now?"
"Then consider it a warning among colleagues," Scott is, as always, reserved, refusing to say the barbed responses that come to mind. Images of Sebastian Shaw and Warren Worthington, and a few choice descriptors for each float among the upper thoughts, though. "Watch your people, Emma. Whoever is responsible shows some level of sohpistication in his or her methods. They might not be content to toy with the boy's RA of a small school for runaway mutants."
Emma snorts indelicately and swats at those images with an impatient mental hand. "Then as a /colleague/, I thank you for your warning, unnecessary as I'm sure it is," she sneers and uncrosses her legs to stand. She holds there for a brief moment, fingers steepled on the tabletop and her eyes fixed on Scott with an aching hardness. "In the future, you can just add me to your email distribution list. I wouldn't want to take up anymore of your /valuable/ time with personal warnings."
Scott is quiet for some time, uncertain how to respond. But then again, internal conflict is nothing new for one Scott Summers. "If that's what you would prefer." There's a pause, then an almost hasty afterthought, "I hadn't thought it had to be that way."
Emma moves to step away, but his words hold her in place, wrapped in bands of old emotion worn so thin it's translucent to both sides of the thin line and surprise. "How did you think it could be, Scott?" she asks contemptuously. "What other way could it be? Would you /want/ it to be?"
"This came out much differently when I played it in my head," Scott admits, a small sigh escaping. "It wouldn't have to be so hostile. Or maybe that's my ideals speaking for me."
"Sorry, darling. I'm afraid it is either hot or cold for us. We just can't seem to find a middle ground," Emma replies in brittle cheer. She freezes and her brow twitches an instant before she steps back close to bend over and lift his face up to her kiss with her hand. It is long and enticing, and when she's finished, she separates enough to breath against his lips, "Your ideals always were so adorable." And then she straightens and turns to leave.
Scott stiffens at first, then the part of him knowing this full well leans in, relaxing with the kiss, despite the mind raging against it. The mind wins in the end, and he starts to pull back just before she breaks away. "Emma," he starts to speak, interrupting himself of the many things he could and might say. Finally, he settles with a dispassionate "Take care of yourself."
<< I always do, >> is whispered into his mind, his thoughts turned away with a caressing touch to allow the response to enter. She does not look back.
Scott doesn't look away. For a long time, he simply sits there, staring at the path of her departure. Much longer than it takes his coffee to cool.
Scott calls Emma up to see how, and what, she's been doing.