Frost Enterprises Office & HFC Office
11/21/2006
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Lobby - Frost Enterprises - Financial District
The lobby of the building takes more than its name from its owner. Cool, blue-veined marble spreads across the floor and wraps up the sides of supportive pillars and functional countertops. The walls hold a hint of grey that only contrasts with the white crown molding that cover the seams of floor, wall, and ceiling, where contemporary recessed lighting sinks deep.
"Turkey. /Turkey/ It is the bloody turkey /holiday/, what do you mean you can't find any? Have you looked? Well, you had better, or I'll have the cook staff stuff and serve /you/." The phone call ends with a less than satisfying press of the off-button. "I hate holidays," Emma grumbles and leans forward to plant her chin between her palms.
"I don't know. Roasted assistant?" Adel's posture is liquid, languid: he drapes against the chair as though he was poured into it and left to gel. A silver-handled cane leans against the side and a navy suit jacket drapes over the back. Waistcoat and shirt rumple in his sloach, and he turns his hands to study his nails. "That would be a dinner that Richards wouldn't soon forget. Very Hellfire. Boswell would be pleased, I'm sure, having arranged for the little dinner for us to entertain the President in such style."
"Well, you know what they say about publicity," Emma retorts, amusement threaded thinly through her expression and thoughts. She drops one hand and tilts her head into the other palm to look at him sideways. "Would it be any less shocking than not having turkey on Thanksgiving?"
"I like assistants," Adel says with a grin. "I'm sure someone will find a turkey or two, somewhere. You could have one imported. The arrangements are all made, but I've neglected to explicitly inform our Black counterparts. You might want to tell Shaw -- or not. How is he taking things?"
Emma shrugs and reaches to pull a pen from the cup at the corner of the workspace mat. "He's hiding away, storing up his bombast and bluff for when they're most effective. Other than that, things are quiet. We should ensure they stay that way. Suborn a favored secretary, perhaps. Someone with a little more information on him and who isn't obviously linked to us. Just in case..." She pounces the end of the pen against the mat, clicking it repetitively.
"I'll slink about his office if you make an appointment and get to know his staff," Adel says, finishing his study of his nails to look up. "I could talk to him about -- well, I'll make something up. Do you think it likely that Shaw will retaliate, then? Try to regain control? When? How?"
"Of course it's likely. As soon as he has an opportunity, once he's consolidated and rebuilt his strength." She lifts her head and leans back into the seat, replacing the mat with her thumb in the slow, steady clicking of the pen. "We could send you to invite him to the dinner? Would that be sufficient cover?"
"Perhaps," Adel agrees. He runs his thumb over blunt nails, hands forming a loose fist. "Cover enough."
Emma nods and inhales deeply, trying to throw off the lethargy of mid afternoon. "I'll arrange for an immediate appointment for you then."
"What strength does he need to rebuild?" Adel asks, revisiting the top he'd let lie untouched.
"Resources and influence. He lost more than he considered when he let his pieces go so easily. He lost not only his influence over them, but also their influence over others. Their contacts, their resources."
"I've got Percy working on that -- on Harper, on the pawns." Adel glances up at Emma. "We might be able to remove Linden from the board if you send him to Grey asking sanctuary."
Emma startles awake. "Send him to--?" The echo dies on her lips and she narrows her eyes at him, hands gripping the arms of the chair. "Send him to Grey? Mm. Would that be any less dangerous than allowing him to remain on the board?"
"Uhm, yes?" Adel says, blank as he eyes Emma in surprise. "What can he possibly tell her that she doesn't already know? It removes yet another piece from Shaw's control, with little cost to us, and it might cause trouble for Grey."
"Anything that has occurred /since/ she left?" she reminds him mildly, focused instead on the possibilities Adel's words present. "How do we do it? It cannot be telepathic compulsion. Xavier would sense it. Is he that close to breaking ranks?"
"The miracle is that he hasn't yet," Adel says, rolling his eyes at the reminder. "Please. Since she left? Unless you and Shaw are hiding dire secrets, there's nothing more terrible than she'd already know."
"No more than you are, darling," she murmurs, looking away and toward the wall of windows lining one side of the office. "Poor, tired Bill. Do it."
Adel rolls a glance at Emma, irritation edged with weariness. "Who could keep secrets from you? Consider it done. Percy and Harper will work on Shaw's pawns. Bahir's the last real problem, and he's weak."
"Plenty of people have," Emma says indifferently as she cross one knee over the other and tips her chair back. She glances down and tugs at the hem of her skirt, smoothing it into a flat line across the top of her knee. "What do you suggest?"
"I don't know." Adel says, tipping his head back to frown at the ceiling. "Shaw is not what Bahir thinks he is. Bahir became a part of this because I am a part of this; because he wanted to know; because Bahir thought -- /thinks/ -- that Shaw wants what is best for all mutants, not just himself, but it seems more and more that Shaw looks out only for himself. Bahir ignores Shaw's darker excesses. Perhaps something he couldn't ignore."
"Perhaps something more than that. Perhaps something that directly contradicted that belief." Emma settles her hands in her lap, pressing the heel of her palms into her thighs. Perhaps we can provoke Sebastian into something hasty...""
Head tipped the other way, gaze falling level with Emma's, Adel arches his eybrows. "What do you mean?"
"I... am not certain. Yet. However, it would seem that Sebastian has already laid the groundwork in supporting an increase in tension to fuel a war on our kind simply to line his pockets."
"It would seem that he has," Adel agrees. "Just how beaten is he?"
"He's been worse off before. He's had his knees kicked out from underneath him, he's not bent them. He's... contained, for the time being, but it is a difficult thing to quantify."
"What do you gain from him, anyway?"
Emma's eyes brighten into a hard glint and her lips twist and thin. "It depends on the moment. That too is a rather difficult thing to quantify."
Adel smiles: a bare curve on the shake of his head. "So try. Make a list."
Emma exhales softly and purrs, "I'll see what my accountants can come up with."
"Would you rather be clever at each other or actually talk?"
"That would mean one of us at least would have to speak plainly, and I'm not certain that I am capable of such. Not on this. Not for what you ask. How can I be clear with you when it isn't clear to me?" She gives her head a small shake and grabs onto the ends of the chair arms.
"He beats you, he chokes you, he violates you -- and you are ambivalent," Adel says, tone flat with the effort of control that shields thoughts and emotions. "Because you think you've won. He's weak now, weak but not beaten, not broken -- how do you keep him from rising again?"
"No," she whispers, knuckles whitening in empathy with the shield blowing a frozen storm cover across her own thoughts. "/Not/ ambivalent. /Never/ ambivalent."
Adel is silent, quiet in feature and voice and mind. He watches. After a moment, he lifts an eyebrow, expectant.
How does one explain hatred so pure it is a knife's blade away from love? How does one transmit the miasma of emotions stirred by the modeling process? Anger, envy, resentment, pride, desire, revenge, comfort, and more all so intimately entwined that to remove that influence is nearly like considering cleaving oneself in two. Emma inhales and forces back the storm and bites down, focusing her attention so tightly on maintaining the link between her little explored thoughts on the matter and the tentative touch she offers Adel.
Adel reluctantly accepts the link of emotion, taking it in with guarded reaction and multi-hued emotion flickering darkly around the link. Dismissing it once information is shared, he shakes his head.
Emma scrambles back from the edge of the buried lake of dark and twisted entanglements and slams the door shut on it, though mists creep in from under and around the door. She seethes quietly. "What do you /want/ from me?"
"I prefer you strong, on your own two feet," Adel says, chin lifting, "rather than tied to and weakened by a falling, failing man doomed to die an early death. Clinging to your weaknesses; treasuring them. Forget the emotion, Emma. You're a business woman. You can do the hard calculation. What /benefit/ does Shaw provide?"
"Aside from being the devil known?" Emma asks, rising from the chair to pace off excess agitation. "He has his own influence, his own networks. They're in disarray right now, but that doesn't mean he's worthless. He provides that, and he is a known element on the board. With his position empty, there would be a vacuum of power."
"Influence and networks that he uses against you. A known element of discord. Were his position empty, it is a slot you can fill -- Emma," Adel says, breaking off and rising. He pulls his coat from the back of the chair, shrugging into it. "Maybe you just can't be objective about him."
"I tried to tell you that." She folds her arms behind her and catches at her forearms, turning away and coming to a stop in front of the windows. "I'm not deaf to your arguments, Adel. I'm just... I find... It's difficult."
"You've other things to worry about, I suppose. Turkeys." Adel buttons his jacket, all but the last, and drops his hands into his pockets. He watches Emma stand before the windows, his tone sympathy touched with irritation. "If you can't be objective, than grant your pieces leave to deal with him: Travis and I, your pawns. We'll get Linden from his control, I'll see what can be done with Bahir, perhaps pushing Shaw into being sloppy, or exposing Shaw's plans. Between us, we might be able to prevent him from threatening you. And you can import turkeys."
"Do it." The tone is cut off and dull, like the woman shrouded in shields so tightly held and controlled that they fairly groan under the weight of the tension required to hold them steady.
"And you'll get the turkey?" Adel verifies.
"I'll get the turkey." Morbid humor seeps and spreads. "Even if I have to go out and shoot one myself."
"Excellent! I trust you to wear white so that no one shoots at you." Adel claps his hands, (God bless!), suit falling in neat lines as he pulls hands from his pockets. "That ought to be everything. Anything you can think of?"
Emma turns her head to look at him over her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. "If there is anything I have neglected, I'm sure you can take care of it."
Adel tips his head, just slightly. "And so I will. Good day, Emma." Picking his cane up, he heads out with a certain familiar stiffness, but still stops to flirt with the secretary.
11/21/2006
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
White claims this simple suite with a regal decisiveness softened by fine fabrics, lush carpeting, and the suffusion of well-bred taste. The bed stands sleek with satins and down-plumped pillows, its ash-blond frame matching the wood of its paired nightstands and the long, low-slung bureau against one silk-papered wall. Across the room, layers of gauze curtain shield tall windows; a high-backed armchair reigns in a corner there, attended by wide ottoman and neat reading lamp.
One door leads out to the office, another into a large walk-in closet filled with a complete wardrobe, and yet another opens in on a bathroom of echoing design and decor. White marble lies cool and waiting in tub and sinks; the white tile of floor and walls hoards dull reflections. Fixtures gleam silver, like the vanity mirror's frame, and support a ranked rack of towels by the shower stall, the white cloths perfectly monogrammed, fluffed, and arranged for their mistress.
Another day, another manila envelope. Travis should probably invest in stock. Or at least add them to his expenditures report. Box of ammo. Silencer. Plane ticket to Nashville. 100 count envelopes. He raps on Emma door, hovering in the hall, awaiting her response.
It's not long in coming. The mental communication is simple and hollow, bereft of the normal warmth and draw that accompany it. << Come in, Travis. >> The door is unlocked, and inside the spacious office, Emma has tucked herself into a corner chair, knees crossed, hands in her lap, dressed professionally in tailored lines, and her face guarded as it watches the flames dance in the fireplace.
Travis crosses the room, depositing the envelope on the desk before making his way to her corner. "That should keep Wheeler from being a problem," he states, pausing to the side of the chair. "The fire does add something to the room."
Emma shudders and looks away. "I think Sebastian deliberately had them make it larger to taunt me," she replies, unfolding and standing. She tugs the line of her skirt straight with a discrete twitch of her fingers and steps past him to head to the desk and pick up the envelope. "Good. What about his partner? Will he go along as well?"
"He's been...told to play nicely," Travis chooses his words carefully. "He has less to lose, though, so we need to keep a close watch. One misstep... East River's pretty cold this time of year."
"Not cold enough," Emma mutters, thinking back to another November swim. She dumps the contents of the envelope out and begins to rifle through papers, photos, a colorful assortment of slips of paper. "Use whatever resources you need. Your attention may be needed elsewhere."
Travis crosses the room, back to the edge of the desk, carefully balancing his weight on the edge. "Elsewhere?"
"You need to contact Adel. He may have an assignment for you," Emma says simply, avoiding eye contact.
"He /may/," Travis repeats slowly, providing eye contact enough for both of them as he carefuly watches her movements. "How...intruiging."
She taps a stack of papers together and begins to insert them back into the envelope. "Yes. We've taken the Black Court. I bought Percy from Sebastian, and his Rook, Sal, has defected. Between those two, we have influence over most of his pawns, and your counterpart is on the verge of seeking sanctuary outside the Court." She stops and finally looks up with a wolfish smile. "You might be of help there. Do you still maintain avenues of communication with Jean Grey?"
"We have occasionally crossed paths, though not in recent months," Travis says, a slight shake of his head. "Although when last we spoke, there was an opening for...potental tutelage. Do you have /need/ for avenues of communication to be there?"
Emma's smile turns pointed. "Coordinate with Adel. I'm sure he will find that information useful." The last of the envelope's contents are returned to their place.
"I'm certain something can be arranged," Travis nods, pushing off the desk. "Between the two of us, no connection's too preposterous."
"Of course not," Emma laughs, sliding the envelope along the edge of the desk as she moves behind it and to a picture hung on hinges. Behind it is a small wall safe.
"I have been avoiding him of late," Travis comments, trailing back to her earlier comment. "Other than the obvious, specific concerns?"
"The specific concerns /should/ be rather obvious," Emma notes dryly, punching in a combination and stepping back as the door swings open. The packet is deposited inside and the door shut, the lock making a series of beeps as she turns around. "He's been avoiding us too. Being on the descent is not an enjoyable position to be in, though I have tried to make it more palatable."
Travis mouth twitches at the last bit, though he refrains from laughing aloud. "I'm sure he's most appreciative of your attention to the matter." He pauses a moment. "A far cry from where we were a year ago."
"But not from where we will be a year hence. I do /not/ intend on /ever/ being there again," she mutters darkly, though a glimmer of suggestion winks at him from the depths of bright blue eyes for that silent laugh.
"Wherever you lead, oh Queen," Travis says, flourishing his hand in one mock bow.
"Wherever?" she queries lightly.
"Well, assuming it's someplace I've an interest in seeing."
Emma lifts a brow and turns to head into the bedroom without a word.
Travis' interest is captured. He follows.
It better be. Good boy.