OOC: Logs! Perhaps with an entry later if I get my work done.
Backdated to last Friday morning:
X-Men MUCK - Friday, September 02, 2005, 10:44 AM
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Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
The design of Emma Frost's office departs rather impressively from that of the rest of the building. Gone are the dark woods and stone of the outside halls and public spaces; instead, white predominates. The floor is covered in a thick, brilliant white carpet that looks as if it should require almost hourly attention to retain the spotless appearance that it always presents. The walls are covered with a similarly immaculate white paint, as is the ceiling. At least, three of the walls are painted. The fourth wall is occupied entirely by a single picture window that gives a perfect view over the grounds and down the East River. No bars or supports mar the view... though the window itself can, of course, be electronically switched to opaque in an instant if such is desired.
The furniture that has been chosen is just as minimalist and modern as the décor. Emma's desk is a single slab of brushed aluminum, curving down and under itself for support. A trio of ultra-slim flat-panel displays extend out of the desk's surface on articulated arms adjustable to any orientation. Rather than a keyboard or mouse, there are a number of touch-sensitive panels scattered over the desktop, each backed with LCD's and able to present a wide variety of interface options. The computer itself is kept discreetly behind a wall: easily accessible when needed and invisible when not. A sweeping, throne-like chair sits behind the desk, its seat and back crafted of brushed aluminum to match the desk itself. A pair of rather more modest ones sit on the floor in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests.
[Exits : [P]rivate [Q]uarters, and [B]ack [O]ut ]
[Players : Emma ]
Nine thirty AM on the nose, and a sleekly purring old Aston Martin is at the gates of the Hellfire Club. The windows are down, and the flash of red hair from within is covered with a neat black scarf in the best 1960s road movie style. Jean Grey has arrived. "Legacy membership as it turns out," she informs the guard with a little smile, curtailed due to a well-doctored but still mangled lower lip that she's patently ignoring by her mannerisms. "You can look it up in the system, I'm sure."
Members are free to come and go from the grounds and the lower levels of the club. No need to inform the Monarchs of /every/ detail, after all? It's a moment's search as the guard verifies her credentials and... yes, Sebastian was a dear and made sure her status was brought up to active member. The gates swing open, admitting the good doctor's baby to the long, curving drive that snakes up the hill tot he Clubhouse's massive exterior.
And the refurbished old DB6 purrs along after a final light plesantry with the guard, and a little sympathy for the boredom inherant in the position. Pulling to a gentle stop in front of the grand old stairs leading up, up, up to the entrance to this lingering bastion of wealth, taste and a forgotten era when the masses knew their place, Jean hands off the keys to a valet with a warning of dire fates to befall anyone who scratches the car. The warning's only about half-joking, and by her eyes she knows it. And in she goes, surveying the marble-strewn vistas of the lower levels with an eye more appraising than tourist as she removes the scarf from her hair and settles it silkily around her neck instead. And, completely disobeying the rules for average members, she finds herself an elevator and punches for an upper floor.
As soon as she heads for that back alcove, the guards scramble, those pawns loyal to Sebastian having some faint inkling of who this might be, and those not... well, they are the ones who call out, "Excuse me Ma'am. That elevator is for staff only, I'm afraid." Two of them, followed by a more cautious third. Dressed in the costumes fitting servants in such a "lingering bastion of wealth, taste, and a forgotten era when the masses knew their place," they draw up, diffidently apologetic in expression and manner.
"I know," Jean replies, eyeing the guards with an expression of benevolent amusement that forms a thin veneer over the steely determination lurking below. "But I'm headed up to have a talk with Emma, and I'd rather not take the stairs. Sorry if 'm breaching protocol," she offers, leaning in to punch the call button again and the letting one hand lifts to cup her chin, a finger resting lightly against her lower lip and others splayed out to feather against the subtle bruising shadowing her jawline. Considering.
"Um... Of course. But you'll need to wait here while I call up," says the unofficial spokeman, turning to jerk his head at his companion, who nods back and moves for the office.
"Actually, I don't." Jean replies, giving the spokesman another small, polite, almost apologetic smile as the elevator door chimes and rolls open. Yes, she -could- be nice and let them in on the news, but that wouldn't be properly socially Darwinian, letting those not capable of keeping themselves in the loop find out without any work. "Given the size footprint here, I'm sure you can catch up to me before I get there if it turns out she's en deshabille." And into the elevator she steps. Now, do we assume this rather businesslike figure knows what she's about and call Emma, or do we call security and have them lock down the elevator, potentially inconveniancing someone who may be important? And can we do it before the elevator manages to go up one floor. Time to display speed and initiative, pawns!
Please. Do not insult the security capabilities of those employed by the HFC. The one who had been doing all the speaking sticks his foot in the doors' path and /smiles/ again, this time backed by a determination in his tone to match the redheaded intruder. "Yes Ma'am. You do," he insists, eyeing the progress of his companion toward the office. The third, who had until now had been quite content to linger in the background, steps forward into active participation in his official duties. His manner is tempered by a wary "Ma'am. May we have your name, please?" Ah. Names! Good things to have.
"Oooh, nice move," Jean approves, glancing down once at the foot in the door and then up to give the owner of it a smile in return. All smiles here today. "And Dr. Jean Grey. Apparently, I'm finally getting to the end of my fifteen minutes of fame. Now, -take your foot out of the door, and go sit down please-." she informs the pawn, tone resonant as she stares him down and implants a telepathic command to do just that, hand hovering over the 'close door' button, ready to mash it at a second's notice.
Well, that takes neat care of the officious one, but the other (tsk, Mr. Black Pawn) draws a handy little devise designed to restrain unwilling but potentially powerful visitors to the Club. "Hold it, Ma'am," he drones flatly, Yeah, he's afraid he won't have a job in about ten minutes, but better than having his balls stomped on by the new security lady. "Anderson. Grey on the admittance list?" he shouts down to the other man, who /was/ reaching for the phone.
Jean eyes the taser and sighs, pointing out that "You can shoot that thing at me if you like, but it's really not going to work if I'm expecting it. I'm going to hit the button to close the door now, but if you want to ride upstairs with me and make sure I don't try and kill anyone, you're welcome to do that." Pointedly, she hovers her hand over the close button again, letting the determined one make his choice without sending him to take a seat too.
"Ma'am, are you /trying/ to get us busted? Cause if you're /not/ on that list, and I let you upstairs without /their/ permission, it's /my/ butt inna sling." He's sincere, if nothing else. Down the hall, Anderson is bouncing at a keyboard, trying to force the appearance of a certain email by sheer mental force. Which, considering the current company, is a rather sad attempt. The phone receiver is held loosely in one hand, beeping annoyingly at him.
"I understand that, Mr..." Jean quests about looking for a nametag, before giving up and continuing. "But if I'm not on the list, it's solely because Sebastian didn't tend to it before leaving on his business trip. I assure you I'm not trying to cost you your job, but it -is- fairly critical I go see Emma. Now. Feel free to say I mentally hijacked you and made you take me upstairs, or whatever tantalizing tale works for you if it turns out I'm lying."
Mental hijacking? Oh, yeah, /riiiiight/! /That/ Dr. Jean Grey! Eep. "Yeah, Grey. Jean Grey. Legacy," Anderson shouts back in time to prevent whatever little bit of stupidity that Mr. ... might have felt compelled to commit. The pawn wheezes and drops his arm, adopting a sickly sheepish grin as he bends into a bow and steps back. Good pawn. Anderson peeks around the corner and cants his head, only daring to whisper "Who the hell was that?" after the doors shut.
"Thank you, Mr. Smith," Jean resists the urge to reassuringly pat the arm of sickly-looking pawn, whom she's decided to give a name since he won't supply one, and instead waves him off the elevator with a dignifiedly pleasant air. Ding! Some of her forward momentum lost due to the slowdown, mere minutes though it was, she refocuses herself on the short ride up the elevator, and by the time it decants her onto the upper levels she's resumed the firmly cadenced stride that first bore her in, arrowing in on Emma's office with head held high. << Good morning, Ms. Frost, this is your wake-up call, >> she greets ahead of herself.
<< Get out, >> is the pleasant greeting that is returned immediately. It appears Ms. Frost was awake, and had some sort of warning. Perhaps the panicky pawns, or maybe Anderson actually managed to finally complete that call. Whatever the case, the door to Emma's office is closed and locked, and on the other side of it, Emma waits, eyeing the same door in guarded expectation.
<< So we'll invade others' minds without a whisper or a care, but our physical space is sacred above all else? >> Jean wonders, resting a hand on the door and letting a ribbon of telekinetic force extend outward to feel the lock and get a sense of its workings and arrangements. << A little hypocritical, Emma old girl. >>
<< Old girl, is it? >> Emma returns, the smirk weaving through her tone, strengthening the shields surrounding her mind with its cold flatness. << If I recall correctly, it is you who is the /old/ one. Or maybe it's the cares of the world you insist on shouldering that makes you so haggard, darling. >> She ambles slowly to the center of the room and plants herself, arms folded, facing the door.
<< And she waltzes completely over the acusation to pick at the term of address, >> Jean dissects Emma's reply with the mental gleam of a surgeon's knife, notably unruffled. << Did I hit a nerve there, for such a studied lack of response. But I'm not going to break down your door, >> she assures, still assessing the mechanisms of the lock all the same. << I really think it'll make much better telling if I recount to Sebastian about how you were hiding your office like a cat under a couch when I came to pay a visit. >>
A gleam of interest, like sunlight hitting a snowy field, that is tapped down immediately. << Oh do. By all means. I'm sure Sebastian will stroke your ego for the effort as well. >> Sebastian, not Shaw. And when so few actually address him by his given name. Hmm. No, Dr. Grey. That little taunt will not goad Emma into unwise action. Not yet, anyway.
<< Oh, my ego is grown quite as large as I'd like it to, I have no need of his ministrations, >> Jean replies, a little spiral of merriment skirling out from her mind and dancing around the fringes of Emma's before dissipating. << I'm just thinking of his own battered and weary soul, desperate for some crumb of amusement, no matter how stale and tired the bread that it's come from. >> Experimentally, she lifts one tumbler in the lock, then the next, then the one after that, and then shuffles rapidly through them like one might drum their fingers. << I -am- the one of us shouldering the cares of the world, after all. Making sure that my fellow monarch's burden is light is the least I can do. >>
Fello-- HELL! Emma's shields snap up, effectively removing sense of her mental presence from the area, save for the clipped << You've overstayed my patience, Jean. Get out or I will have you removed. >> What game is she playing, and how does Sebastian fit into this. Her hand drops to spread her fingers wide over her stomach, nausea churning as a result of her forceful refusal to consider the explanations.
"Actually," Jean replies, ever so calmly, and aloud, disdaining the effort it would take to shout through the closed mental door of Emma's reinforced shields. "I now have the exact same right to be here as you. I thought I'd just drop by and say hello, one Queen to another." A pause, and oh, but that's an evil smirk on the Good Doctor Grey's face as she leaves off fiddling with the lock to run a finger along the broad leaf of a potted plant a step or two down the hall. "So," she wonders, all airy and pleasant and with an edge of agressive good cheer colouring her mind. "Can you recommend an office with a good view of the river?"
The door opens. It isn't yanked or flung, but is rather opened slowly and confidently, matching the cold, oh, so still mien of the office owner. Emma isn't dressed for the day, but the silk swirls of robe and gown serve nearly as well for courtly dress. "So. Sebastian has found himself another whore," she replies, tone clipped and precise, and brows lifting slightly as Jean's face falls into view. Yes. "I see he's already welcomed you to the Board."
Jean allows the inspection with her shoulders back and easy and a slight sideways tip to her chin, not bothering to conceal bruises and scabbed-over lip. She simply runs her fingers along the leaf of the potted plant again, and points out that "Actually, Sebastian's decided he's out of the princess-making business," she replies. "He's decided his attempt to come up with someone meek and biddable was an abject failure," She tips a fencer's nod to Emma, "Not to mention the fact that neither of us is the least attracted to the other, so I'm afraid 'whore' isn't exactly accurate. So, we're simply partners. Perhaps you should've negotiated a better deal when it was your turn."
"Oh, trust me, dear Saint Grey. You'll be his whore. Parceling out your talents and powers to his benefit, and he'll give you little more than a pat on the head." No, no bitterness there. Emma faces her opposite title and folds her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing as she continues to process the information, forcefully shielding her ire from mind and expression.
"You're projecting, Emma," Jean points out, still ever-so-calm and wandering a little further down the hall to crouch and inspect the next potted plant. Pawns and plants. Perhaps her inspection tour is on the 'P' part of the list today? Later, she'll venture to the kitchen for pies. "You were short-sighted when he took you on, willing to be submissive in exchange for a taste of power. -You- didn't consider the costs that early submission would demand of you. That's not my fault or my problem."
"Of course, /darling/," Emma hisses. "What twenty-one year old /does/. Your intuition is, of course, brilliant. What does it tell you about us, then, I wonder? Why does the ever-modest, ever-retiring Jean Grey venture into our halls, and as Black Queen, no less?"
"Emma, please, you're embarassing yourself," Jean replies, smile small due to the injured lower lip, but all the more smug for it. "If you're going to go fishing for information, at least try and be a -little- subtle about it. Or ask Shaw and see if -he'll- pat you on the head," she echoes the earlier statement of her opposite monarch. "Tell him all about how you oh-so-cleverly mentally seduced one Scott Summers because apparently your taste for self-destruction won't let you just be happy with your White King. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know you were bored enough to start a lover's spat."
"Oh, so you've discovered my little game with Scott? Is that what this..." she flings a hand wide, "charade is about? No..." her eyes slide back, speculative and suspicious. "You've been playing this game longer than that, in order to have earned the cooperation of Sebastian. That or he's once again slid into complacency and senility, and I doubt /that/. So much paranoia..." A wintry, suggestive smile. Be careful. Becarefulbecarefulbecareful. When Emma self-destructs, she brings everyone around her down with her. "So. We return, once again, to the question of what brings you here."
"Actually, -you- return again," Jean replies, rising and lifting an eyebrow at Emma as she lets a single finger rest against her lower lip. "If you expect to get answers just because you want them, well..." Cue a smile less smug and more glittering. "Get used to disappointment. I have other things to tend to this fine morning, so I'm not staying long. We should do lunch."
"Actually," Emma echoes, pursing her lips into a tight smirk, "I /do/ expect to. If not from you, darling, then from others." A pause, and her arms drop, twitching the edge of her robe to fall into better lines. "Don't let me keep you, pet. I'm sure there are kittens aplenty waiting your rescue."
"Oh yes, knights and bishops and rooks and pawns, to your all-controlling queen." Jean gives a nod to that, as if Emma's just triggered some bit of academic recall by her words. "Well, I'd hate to disappoint your people by just telling you, Emma. How dull would their lives be if you always got what you wanted?" She turns on her heel just then, one hand settling in the pocket of the neat and highly-fitted black blazer, and the free one settling anew the scarf she'd used to cover her hair. "And Emma?" she offers as a parting shot. "Leave Scott and the rest of my people alone. You're powerful, but you lack a certain... finesse." And with a steady clack of boot heels, away Jean goes.
Emma bites down on her tongue hard. And literally. The pain distracting her enough to accomplish it's goal, but not enough to keep the mental << Bitch! >> from escaping her control. It's a good minute of barely restrained, tremble-inducing fury that keeps her planted in place, ice-darkened glare fixed on the corner Jean had just disappeared around.
And, from today:
X-Men MUCK - Friday, September 09, 2005, 1:28 PM
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Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Shaw ]
It's not laziness that has Jean Grey still wrapped in a blue dressing gown at 9 AM. It's not even purposeful luxury and indolence. No, the reason that her scavenged scrubs and comfortable old tank top are veiled by softly susurrating silk is merely because she's gotten wrapped up in the morning news crawl and email blitz, and has yet to get past the teeth brushed, hair tidy, and mug of coffee in hand stage. Clicky, clicky, clicky, and still more reports on stricken Senators flip into tabs of her web browser, a cordless phone trapped between shoulder and ear as she chats with a colleague who just happens to work down at Walter Reed. Patient/Doctor confidentiality can be neatly circumvented by deciding that Dr. Jean Grey, specialist in mutant medicine, should somehow give a consultation in a case where the only mutants were the ones the victims were arguing about.
No appointment, no call ahead, no warning at all but for his own presence outside in the hall: Shaw comes a-visiting at Jean's door like a travelling thundercloud. His emotional and mental output is dampened to minimal amounts, mind, so that he is a /small/ thundercloud, but a thundercloud still. Stratocumulus Sebastianus.
Jean's answer to spotting a thundercloud on the edges of her calm blue mental sky? A quick "I'll have to call you back, Ravi. Something's -just- come up." Click goes the phone, and the laptop is abandoned on her kitchen island as she abandons her seat as well to go pad, barefoot on the softly polished wood, to the door to open it just as Shaw arrives. "What happened?" is asked without preamble, Black Queen to Black King in favoured frankness as she waves him in without further ado.
Shaw accepts the invitation, and the frankness, with quiet step and guarded sidelong look as he moves past her into the apartment. Clad in simple brown dress shirt and darker slacks, he has the obvious strain of a mostly sleepless night marking him in stark lines of face, hollowed eyes, tense twitching at noises -- and, of course, that thunderous telepathic aspect. "I spoke with Emma last night," he answers, then draws a breath. "Rather, she spoke with me. I have a few questions for you now, and then I'll explain myself, and then you can turn the interrogation back on me if you want. All right?"
Good God, the telepathic aspect. Jean's eyes unfocus for a moment as she reinforces her shields to filter it accordingly. Early in the day, and still somewhat sleepy-suggestible for it, she needs not the emotional feeder bands being flung out from the whirling center of Shaw. Nodding her head towards the kitchen area, she offers "Coffee?" and a simple aquiescing nod as she smooths a hand down the dressing gown's front, a brief check for decency.
"No, thank you. I'm practically surfing on it right now, to keep myself going." Shaw twists a smile for the humor, rising to social requirements with weary experience. "Some water would be good, please. May I have a seat?"
"'Seat' yourself," Jean quips, proving that it's never too early and rarely too serious for a mild pun. She turns to collect a tall glass from a cupboard, and pops it under the water tap of the fridge, some chunks of ice added for finishing touches. Handing it over, she then boosts herself to a seat on the counter with a propped hand, leaning her head lightly against the fridge and settling expectant green eyes on Shaw. "So," she asks again, but leaves the question hanging. To business.
Yes. Quite. Shaw settles on a stool at the breakfast bar and places the water, after a quick, automatic sip, on the counter before him. His hands cup large and long-fingered around it. He studies it, studies them, and in the contemplation, thunder moves off, or else narrows down to pinpoint, silent focus behind his eyes, to trouble her no more. After a moment, he says without looking up. "Emma called you a 'Xavierite.' 'Heart and soul,' no less. Can you explain to me what she meant by that?"
"It means that I was the very first of Charles Xavier's students," Jean replies simply, spreading her hands and keeping her body language neutral, although she remains quite watchful over Shaw. Not notably defensive, merely attempting to attune herself to his moods and modes. "It means that yes, I do believe that the philosophy he follows is a good one, and that integration and education, and people succeding on their personal merits, not what's in their gene scans, is the way of a successful future. It doesn't mean I'm his puppet or cat's paw, or that I blindly follow ever word of his as if it's law." She pauses, and allows a sly, determined little smile to slip onto her freshly-healed lips. "It also means that I'm going to have loyalties and protective impulses about my colleagues and my students 'til the day I die. Considering Emma decided to torpedo her own love life by mentally luring one old schoolmate into sleeping with her, then letting the other old schoolmate she's involved with catch them in the morning, I suspect she's probably huffy that I told her she really ought not to do that again." The 'or else' is left silent.
Shaw's eyes rise, dark and deep and soul-tired, to watch her in return through the answer, which he accepts without comment or question. Instead, he responds, "That was my second point: how she knew about you joining the Inner Circle. You confronted her, then."
"Mmhm." Jean agrees, eyes steady on Shaw's, although without the particularly hypnotic quality of a telepath at work. "You encouraged me to rattle her, so I paid a visit the morning after our discussion. Tested the pawns on duty to see how well they'd respond to someone just sailing in off the street, and then dropped a few conversational bombs through a closed door until she finally stopped hiding under her desk and came out to talk to me. She wanted answers, I declined to give them, got her to call me a bitch, and left."
A brief headshake breaks the visual contact, though Shaw renews it after he has another sip of water. He runs a hand down the countertop, leaving rapidly drying streaks of condensation from the glass; he sighs. "I have no quibbles about a confrontation. I just wanted to establish the fact of it. Thank you. My last--" He breaks off, rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose for a scattered moment until he has the threads caught up again. "My last question, for now, at least," he resumes more strongly and looks up at her. "What /are/ your loyalties?"
"First and foremost, to the people under my protection," Jean answers promptly, ticking points off against her fingers and sliding off the countertop to lean back against it instead. "Mess with my friends and loved ones, and I -will- bring you down. I don't think that's unreasonable. Warren, as the White King, well, he's not exactly in need of my protection, but I'd prefer him -not- to be assassinated, folded, spindled or mutilated, because he does remain my friend. But he's chosen to side with Emma, so..." She trails off and spreads her hands, metaphorically cleansing them of any future blood. She pauses to get a look at Shaw, and then continues. "After that, my loyalty is to myself. I'm not going to compromise who I am and what I stand for for you. You come in third place. I'm your Queen, I'm here to support you, back you and help you in whatever you may want me, so long as it doesn't conflict with the first two loyalties."
"Thank you," Shaw repeats quietly when she's done. He sits up to drain off the rest of the water, then hunkers again on elbows' brace. One hand slides the glass to her; the other cups his brow as he stares down at the counter for a long minute. Thoughts pop and fizzle sluggishly, even on caffeine's hectic energy, and his emotional presentation is as flat as his voice and that black-eyed stare, which comes up to her again. Dropping both hands together in a loose clasp, he says, "And now I promised an explanation."
"That you did," Jean agrees. She retrieves her cup of coffee, takes a seat at the breakfast bar beside Shaw, and sips expectantly.
Shaw shifts weight and attention to adjust to her move, though he doesn't face her, quite. "Emma is upset about this move, as I expected. I didn't expect her to be quite so irrational about it, however, all things considered. She'll get over it, or she won't." He huffs a small breath; exhausted humor stirs, stills. "We can take care of ourselves, at any rate, so it doesn't matter too much. I would wish ... no, it doesn't matter. I brought up Wide Awake. I think I genuinely surprised her." He does glance at Jean for that, gauging her own response.
"Perhaps I rattled her a little -too- well," Jean muses, tone dryly self-deprecating as she watches Shaw in profile, taking in little lines of tension, little traces of fatigue. Theories are spun, discarded, and reexamined again, and her reaction is merely one of steady consideration. "It doesn't surprise me that she would have been," she replies. "While everything I did to gather data is from the public record, the initial tips that set me to looking where I could find things are from sources she doesn't believe would talk to me."
"Makes sense," Shaw says to it all, and he's considering, too, although it's turned inward, not on her. "I led her to believe that I'd found out about the project through Dynamo, not you ... and I got her to list the names of those involved and their contributions. It matches, Jean. I don't know if you needed confirmation from her mouth, but there it is." He rubs his eyes again, then elbows the bar on a turn to her, a heavy lean, but a little lightening in his manner: game response to game's challenge, flickers of pride in his work and himself. "She said she and Worthington are the only ones with copies of the plan. If you're wanting to track this business and do -- whatever you're wanting to do with it, maybe you can call on your old schoolmate. Or maybe not. He /has/ thrown in with her. They're in love. They're fools," he mutters.
"It's not exactly needed, but it -is- comforting," Jean replies, venturing a small smile. "Thank you. And in return, while she and Warren are the only ones with copies of the plans, their genesis was in the mind of one General William Stryker. Who appears to have been captured by one Erik Lensherr. Not much of an information trade, I know, but there you go. Something to hang over her head if you feel like it." She sips at her coffee, and ventures that "I don't have to be a telepath to sense that that's not all. You're depressed."
Shaw flattens a hand to the counter, the fingers spreading a bit as if for further bracing. "I'll remember that information, thanks." His gaze swings over the kitchen. Back to her, and it hoards a small smile that brushes his mouth for only an instant. "I'm usually depressed these days. Don't worry about it; I'm still functioning, and I function very well, indeed. About the rest of last night, though..." Again he pauses, glances at her. Frowns this time, with the coals of old, familiar anger flaring to life. "Can you give me some instruction in telepathic shielding? Emma treated me like a marionette. I'm tired of that. Heartily. However I might provoke her ... I don't /rape/ her like that. If there's anything you can do to help, I'd appreciate it."
"Well, there are limits," Jean warns, making no promises she cannot keep, and steeping her fingers over her coffee cup. "No matter how good a student you might make, you're still a baseline human as far as your brain's psionic sector can go. Emma will always be able to reach in and make you a marionette, if she expends enough energy." That prognosis delivered, medically precise and pessimistic, along comes the optimism, right on schedule. "But I can teach you to shield thoughts, and I can teach you how to fight her influence enough to make it worth more than her while. On the downside, this will take time and effort, and you'll have to trust me enough to let me into your mind, if you want to reach the higher levels. On the upside, I don't think -mental- warfare should take anything off your life and health."
Shaw snorts. "I'll take what I can get, Jean, and to hell with my life and health, which don't matter, anyway, if I'm dancing like a puppet on her string." << Or yours, >> slips out, and he grimaces. "Sorry, if you caught that."
"I did, but it's understandable," Jean waves off, unoffended. "I hold no illusions about the fact that a great deal of why you've handed me this position at your side is because you want to fight fire with fire as far as telepathy goes. Fire's hard to trust, even if you've set it yourself." Philosophy offered, she resumes watching him, deciding once again that "There's more, isn't there?"
Shaw makes a little smile for her understanding, but it drops quickly enough, and he shrugs. His answer is still flat in voice, but riptides of emotion tug hard through dark baritone and mind. "I offered to resign from the Circle and go back to Pennsylvania if they'd agree to it and to letting me live."
"You -what-?" Not quite into capital letters, but with italics clearly audible, Jeans hands drop from her coffee mug to instead grab at the sides of her dressing gown before she schools them to stillnes again. "What on earth happened? I'm hardly an aspect of the Almighty, but I'd like to think I can read people reasonably well, and I got the impression that the Circle -is- your life."
Not above glancing amusement at her reaction, Shaw nevertheless mutes it to give her another shrug and another answer. "It is, and look at what it's doing to me. It's killing me -- oh, not as surely as, say, my mutation is, or even the drinking and smoking I still like so well. But I kick those habits for years at a time whenever I think I should, and I can kick this habit, too, if I need to." He gazes solemnly at her, his expression unguarded for once, and his mental defenses dropped, too. "I'm tired, Jean. I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm frustrated, I'm fed up -- why /shouldn't/ I go? That's what I asked her, and of course, she thought I was playing another game with her. I might've been, on some level, but it doesn't change the underlying truth: the Circle doesn't need me as much as I need it, the Circle is failing me as much as I'm failing it, and I /have/ my pride and an instinct for self-preservation, thanks." Pause. "She did give me her word that I could go without penalty. But I wanted Wide Awake stopped if I did, and she didn't -- wouldn't -- grant me that. So I'm stuck for now, or at least until I decide my hide is more important than this idiotic project."
"I'd point out that, as a mutant, your hide is probably dependant on stopping the idiotic project," Jean offers frankly. "Since, should you resign from the Circle and leave them to it, there's no reason why they wouldn't send a few prototypes to come a-knocking on your door when they eventually succeed with it. Which I have no doubt they will, left to their own devices. But, self-preservation aside, you're a proud man as you say, Sebastian," she states the obvious, getting to her feet in order to borrow from the greeks and indulge in peripatetic ponderings. "A driven man. Heading off back to Pittsburgh to hide and live out your remaining score of years, I think you'd probably end up killing yourelf all the more quickly, leaving such a huge part of your life unfinished and at loose ends. A doctor has to consider the quality of life of her patient, not just the length of it."
"That /is/ one reason I want it shut down, and one reason to stay on." Shaw edges around on his stool, hooking elbows on the bar behind him, to watch her thoughtful wanderings. "And I don't trust them, I'd rather steward such nonsense myself if it /must/ go on ... but it shouldn't. God, it really shouldn't. Have they even thought about if this gets out to the press? Do they not care? None of us is above the law; none of us is above public humiliation, if nothing else. I know this technology will happen sooner or later, and they'd probably rather control it now while they can, but it's still /absurd./" Ah, anger: trust that to rouse a slumbering, sluggish Black King.
"You can't uninvent an atomic bomb," Jean agrees with a shake of her head, sharp and focused and feeding off the glowing embers of Shaw's ire to shore up her own banked fires. "And for the love of God, the consequences and implications of this technology go well beyond that. A simple programming tweak, and these beasties would go after anyone -not- a mutant. Or specifically target various races, or various families, or, hell, -anyone- sharing any genetic markers that have been selected for. Genie in a bottle, and they've pulled out the cork. So you want loyalty, Shaw?" she questions. "So help me, I'm stopping this, and I'll drag you along behind me if I have to. Worn old parade horse to my young sprinter," she offers an allusion to the ponies.
Shaw says softly, "I'm tired of getting dragged around, though I appreciate the sentiment. Jean ... I might or might not kill myself if I do go home again. A bullet to the head would be better than eventual death my genes have planned for me, right? But honestly, I don't have all that much to live for if I don't have the Inner Circle. My life can be finished whenever I decide it, and I don't have loose ends to worry about." His voice roughens, and his eyes gleam damply, but he doesn't notice, or doesn't mind. "I have no legacy, either, it's true, but hell, who does? I appreciate your doctorly concern. It's kind of you, and very proper and professional. But you don't need to lay it on me. It isn't necessary. Save your energy for this fight of yours."
"At the moment, Sebastian," Jean replies, tone soft but far from pitying. "This fight of mine is tied up in you. You probably rage a fair bit at having to need me at all," she surmises, stepping over to him and settling a hand on the base of his neck, fingers probing at tensed muscles like a coach with a weary prize-fighter ten rounds in. "But I need you, if I'm going to pull this off, ride this tiger and survive without losing too many limbs. So, quite frankly," she informs him, a bit of bracing humour making a reappearance. "You've offered me a job and you're stuck with me now. Get used to having a supporter in the Circle."
Shaw closes his eyes: at the words, at the touch. Doesn't move away from either, but there's a flinch behind his ragged, rugged expression. "I don't," he says after a minute, slitting the near eye open at her. "Rage, that is. This is the course I've chosen, and I'll follow it for as long as it pays off. Raging against it, or against you or myself, is a waste of time. We move ever onward; we have to, because that damn tiger really is hungry."
"Don't s'pose Emma likes bloody steaks," Jean offers, a bit of black humour. She notes the flinch, but there's now a certain amount of medical interest invested, and so she probes a little more, fingers seeking out knots and pressure points in an attempt to grant at least some small release. Shaw could be Charles Manson at this point, but he still possesses a spine, and an unhappy spine, and Jean is drawn to Fixing Things like a bee to nectar. "So, now that Emma knows you know, and knows I'm her new opposite, what's our next move? More surprise? Shock and Awe? Or subtly trying to influence the white court out from under her?"
Shaw snorts to the suggestion, and silken, sleek black stripes on orange leap for a moment through his foremind. Rawr. "I think I'll keep my distance from her -- although I don't know." His muscles might be relaxing under the prodding, but he's frowning through appropriately tigrish thoughts, plans, contingencies, options, probabilities. "There /is/ something to be said for the shock-and-awe approach. She was throwing a tantrum last night over you; I might be able to press that to a breaking point and see what comes spilling out." Then he slides his Queen a small grin. "And I /have/ been influencing her pieces. I'm on relatively good terms with her Rook, at least superficially. I have been working over two of her pawns. I've known her new Bishop for years and have been leaning on him very productively lately. If you have ideas in that direction yourself, by all means, go for it. I want to rule this Circle, but I want it whole and united under me when I do, White and Black."
"Well, I did once hire Emma's new Queen's Knight to do a little job for me," Jean allows, fanning out her own cards prettily, and leaning at an uncomfortable angle to get both of her hands on Shaw's shoulders, thumbs working away at complaining trapezius muscles. "And Tessa Lesair... actually, I ran across her before you or Emma ever did," she reveals. "Although she didn't want to split her loyalties by continuing to associate with me, there's still friendly feeling. More than I can say about for her and you, I gather."
A big paw reaches up and folds around one of her hands. Shaw's emotion zings more strongly through the contact: irritation over anger over disgust, and a nugget of regret buried in the shimmering, sucking folds. "I'm fine," he says, "and I don't feel comfortable right now with this, please." Letting her go, he doesn't move any more than required to turn his head for sloe-eyed study. "I made a mistake with Tessa, and she's gone down a new path, yes. She wants me dead. I imagine she spends a good deal of time thinking about it, planning it, working towards it -- and from what Emma's told me, the White King would not be discouraging, although he wants to see me broken first. Splendid folks you've spent time with, Jean, or do I just bring it out in them?"
Jean removes her hands at that, settling into a seat and settling them into her lap, clutching lightly to make them behave. But... but... he's not *fixed* yet. "I'd say it's probably your charming influence," she replies thoughtfully to the rhetorical question. "When faced with a practising social Darwinist, if your reputation holds true in fact, the worst as well as the best of people tends to get brought forth. Although in Tessa's case, I think there was a little underlying mental instability. It's common enough, in telepaths."
Shaw twitches a shallow nod. "And I didn't help by pushing her on that front. A mistake. We both know it. I even apologized, to little avail. The last time I saw her, she was spitting death threats, giving me unbelievable attitude for our respective positions, thinking that we were /equals/ in some insane way...." He grits his teeth on a stop. "I'm sorry. Still upset about it, obviously. At least she wasn't throwing knives at me that time, unlike at our prior meeting. She wants the White Queen's throne, you know, and now she'd have to knock you off to do it. That's how our royal succession runs: Black removed yields to White, White to Black, and round and round we go."
"Well, on the upside, I'm nicely impervious to thrown knives, if I have the slightest inkling that they're headed my way," Jean offers, with more black humour. "God, what a mess. But I suppose I can expect a visitation from her at some point, if I don't decide to visit her first?" she questions, glancing down at her dressing gown as if aware for the first time that she's still wearing it. "I can see the sense of such a system, allowing different schools of thought to alternate their time in the sun, but removal... Always fatal?" she questions. "Seems a bit of a waste of what are clearly some talented people to get this far."
"I don't know if she'll visit you. I don't know if she knows about you, but let's assume she does, if Emma does. The whole White Court should; that kind of news travels fast." Shaw rubs his hands idly on his knees, his gaze abstracted somewhere in the middle distance while he keeps thinking. His reply to the question comes as absently: "Not a policy I'd choose to follow to the letter in all cases, and not one I /am/ following right now, in one case before me, but then, I'm not the Circle's ruler. Yet. I hate waste, always have. There are better ways to do this whole secret-cabal business...."
"Glad to hear it," Jean nods, eyes narrowing in consideration. "Far better to foster development rather than a sense of kill or be killed. Hardly educational. -- Oh, and that reminds me, Tyanna Fiske's the White Rook, right?" she questions, reaching for her laptop to bring up Shaw's latest missive to her. "She's a former student of mine. For all Emma sneers about Xavierites, she's in love with one and has another guarding her."
Shaw turns on the stool to see, too. "/Really./ Yes, that's her. We have a friendly sort of relationship: gifts traded, trips taken out on her boat." He rests his weight on arms folded to the counter and shakes his head. "Emma isn't the most logical of people, but she does choose and groom her pieces well. Worthington, I still don't understand except as a figurehead to replace me -- I never even see the boy around -- but Fiske is a good choice. Oh. Speaking of Rooks, I think you need to meet mine; I've already pointed her your way, in fact. Sal Harper, of the selfsame protection-services company new in town out of Houston. I know you can guard yourself, but every little bit helps, right? She's weeding out the Black Pawns and getting them into shape, too."
"I have to say I was fairly impressed with the pawns hanging about the club," Jean offers. "I rattled them a bit, but they recovered nicely, and the one with the taser managed to keep a hold of himself while he was pointing it at me, which is tricky. Although I guess a taser's a bit different than a real gun." She trails off to ponder that for a bit, before giving a nod. "Even if I can protect myself, I do leave my car parked in a public area and there -are- people who'd not mind blowing me up. Does Ms. Harper offer that sort of security as well?"
"Full service," Shaw assures her with a smile that floats over, oh, any number of swift, ephemeral mental currents. "Rook guards the monarchs, and she is extremely dedicated and professional in her duties. /I/ trust her, if that gives you an idea of her worth."
Interesting currents indeed. Jean lifts an eyebrow at things unspoken, but it arches higher at the encomium delivered to Sal Harper's address. "It does indeed. I think I need to meet the woman," she decides. "Now, do you mind if I ask whether you have any particular areas you'd like me to tend to?" she questions. "Emma's remarks about my being your new whore aside, you know this particular battlefield better than I do."
Shaw gives her wide, and heartily amsued, eyes at the passed-along remark. "She said that? She thinks worse of you than she does me. How ... pleasant. --No, not particularly. Well, wait." He drums fingertips on the bar, blinks through recollection. "She said that if I wanted to dig up dirt on the other Wide Awake players -- to keep myself out of jail as a patsy, you understand -- I should send my people to her because nearly everyone involved with the project is 'indisposed,' by her words. Do you know anything about that? With your sources, could you look into it? You investigated this far without setting off her tripwires, so..."
"Oh, I think she's projecting more than a little bit. She whored -herself- for power and admits it quite readily," Jean allows with more than a little amusement. "Clearly, that's the only working relationship possible with you, don't you know. But I'll see what I can't find out," she promises, drumming her fingers consideringly on the edge of her laptop. "Granted, it will take time to do it properly, since the rest of the world needs to see me pulling my on-call hours at Lennox Hill, and making sure my mice are properly mutated and thriving. And while I've removed myself from the immediate public face of mutant rights, out of concern fro your digestion, I'm still organizing and advising in the background... any up and coming Club business I should be aware of?"
Shaw tips his head back a little in pondering. (No comment about whoring relationships. None at all, though blackened and burnt entertainment does slip mentally past--) "Nothing outstanding," he finally decides, "and I mean it in all senses of the word. I'll send you the next month's social calendar when I get back to my office. Mostly fundraisers, I think, but you'd expect that." His regretful smile fades quickly. "Do you still want to fit in that trip to my lab in Albany, or is your schedule entirely too full right now?"
"Naturally." Jean seems notably unsurprised by the notion of fundraisers. "I'll go see about picking up a few more cocktail dresses, then. And I think Albany would be great, actually," she assures. "I swear, some days I think the city will eat me alive, so a chance to escape and make intelligent-sounding noises about manufacturing processes sounds about right. And of course the trip up would be a good chance to discuss anything I find. Is there an airport near there? I have my pilot's license, and it's hard to bug a rented Cessna."
"I have a private jet," Shaw chooses to point out with a smile, "and the club has a helipad if you'd rather try that mode of transportation. We can discuss details later, then. No rush, but /I/ should be going, at least." That segue, less smooth than usual, but he does make an apologetic gesture as he slides off the stool. "Emma chose in her rage yesterday to out the Inner Circle to my personal attorney, and I have to go do some damage control if I can."
"Helicopters are a bitch to fly, though," Jean has to admit with a playfully sad little moue. "Perhaps when I'm forty I'll take up learning that as a project. But jets are lovely. Lear?" she questions, before reining in the mild technical interest and smoothing a hand across her robe again. "And I should probably actually stop lounging around and get ready for some meetings. Apologies for being a bit underdressed, by the by. And good luck with the damage control."
Shaw says simply, "I never noticed. Yes, it's a Lear, with some customization to my specifications. You can prowl through it to your heart's content if you want." Standing there, he falls silent then, and his gaze, his attention, the heavy and hard mind behind, are all keen on her. Then he nods. And smiles again, a smaller but truer blossom of expression. "Thank you for the support, Jean. We'll see how it goes now. Call me if you need anything."
"I promise your pilot will probably end up submitting a request to have me banned from the cockpit," Jean assures gravely, eyes a-twinkle as she rustles over to show Shaw to the door. "And you're welcome, Sebastian," she answers, as quietly genuine as the smile gifted to her. "We'll see this through and I'll be in touch. You still owe me a tour of the club, some afternoon when you're trying to avoid some annoying meeting."
Shaw barks a short laugh as he opens the door himself, and props it to answer her over his shoulder. "Which is /most/ afternoons these days. And you owe me a check-up, I think, though I did refrain from picking up any exotic bug on vacation. I hope." He grins. "Talk to you later, then. Good luck with your own meetings."
"And also with yours," Jean replies, a solemn and ceremonial hand lifted to complete the impression of some church vicar seeing a parishioner out the chapel and back into the outside world. Once Shaw's safely outside, she shuts the not so dread portal behind her, and is soon back to her emailing and news reading. And thinking some serious thoughts about a certain well-stuffed dossier courtesy of a certain terrorist overlord.
X-Men MUCK - Friday, September 02, 2005, 10:44 AM
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Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
The design of Emma Frost's office departs rather impressively from that of the rest of the building. Gone are the dark woods and stone of the outside halls and public spaces; instead, white predominates. The floor is covered in a thick, brilliant white carpet that looks as if it should require almost hourly attention to retain the spotless appearance that it always presents. The walls are covered with a similarly immaculate white paint, as is the ceiling. At least, three of the walls are painted. The fourth wall is occupied entirely by a single picture window that gives a perfect view over the grounds and down the East River. No bars or supports mar the view... though the window itself can, of course, be electronically switched to opaque in an instant if such is desired.
The furniture that has been chosen is just as minimalist and modern as the décor. Emma's desk is a single slab of brushed aluminum, curving down and under itself for support. A trio of ultra-slim flat-panel displays extend out of the desk's surface on articulated arms adjustable to any orientation. Rather than a keyboard or mouse, there are a number of touch-sensitive panels scattered over the desktop, each backed with LCD's and able to present a wide variety of interface options. The computer itself is kept discreetly behind a wall: easily accessible when needed and invisible when not. A sweeping, throne-like chair sits behind the desk, its seat and back crafted of brushed aluminum to match the desk itself. A pair of rather more modest ones sit on the floor in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests.
[Exits : [P]rivate [Q]uarters, and [B]ack [O]ut ]
[Players : Emma ]
Nine thirty AM on the nose, and a sleekly purring old Aston Martin is at the gates of the Hellfire Club. The windows are down, and the flash of red hair from within is covered with a neat black scarf in the best 1960s road movie style. Jean Grey has arrived. "Legacy membership as it turns out," she informs the guard with a little smile, curtailed due to a well-doctored but still mangled lower lip that she's patently ignoring by her mannerisms. "You can look it up in the system, I'm sure."
Members are free to come and go from the grounds and the lower levels of the club. No need to inform the Monarchs of /every/ detail, after all? It's a moment's search as the guard verifies her credentials and... yes, Sebastian was a dear and made sure her status was brought up to active member. The gates swing open, admitting the good doctor's baby to the long, curving drive that snakes up the hill tot he Clubhouse's massive exterior.
And the refurbished old DB6 purrs along after a final light plesantry with the guard, and a little sympathy for the boredom inherant in the position. Pulling to a gentle stop in front of the grand old stairs leading up, up, up to the entrance to this lingering bastion of wealth, taste and a forgotten era when the masses knew their place, Jean hands off the keys to a valet with a warning of dire fates to befall anyone who scratches the car. The warning's only about half-joking, and by her eyes she knows it. And in she goes, surveying the marble-strewn vistas of the lower levels with an eye more appraising than tourist as she removes the scarf from her hair and settles it silkily around her neck instead. And, completely disobeying the rules for average members, she finds herself an elevator and punches for an upper floor.
As soon as she heads for that back alcove, the guards scramble, those pawns loyal to Sebastian having some faint inkling of who this might be, and those not... well, they are the ones who call out, "Excuse me Ma'am. That elevator is for staff only, I'm afraid." Two of them, followed by a more cautious third. Dressed in the costumes fitting servants in such a "lingering bastion of wealth, taste, and a forgotten era when the masses knew their place," they draw up, diffidently apologetic in expression and manner.
"I know," Jean replies, eyeing the guards with an expression of benevolent amusement that forms a thin veneer over the steely determination lurking below. "But I'm headed up to have a talk with Emma, and I'd rather not take the stairs. Sorry if 'm breaching protocol," she offers, leaning in to punch the call button again and the letting one hand lifts to cup her chin, a finger resting lightly against her lower lip and others splayed out to feather against the subtle bruising shadowing her jawline. Considering.
"Um... Of course. But you'll need to wait here while I call up," says the unofficial spokeman, turning to jerk his head at his companion, who nods back and moves for the office.
"Actually, I don't." Jean replies, giving the spokesman another small, polite, almost apologetic smile as the elevator door chimes and rolls open. Yes, she -could- be nice and let them in on the news, but that wouldn't be properly socially Darwinian, letting those not capable of keeping themselves in the loop find out without any work. "Given the size footprint here, I'm sure you can catch up to me before I get there if it turns out she's en deshabille." And into the elevator she steps. Now, do we assume this rather businesslike figure knows what she's about and call Emma, or do we call security and have them lock down the elevator, potentially inconveniancing someone who may be important? And can we do it before the elevator manages to go up one floor. Time to display speed and initiative, pawns!
Please. Do not insult the security capabilities of those employed by the HFC. The one who had been doing all the speaking sticks his foot in the doors' path and /smiles/ again, this time backed by a determination in his tone to match the redheaded intruder. "Yes Ma'am. You do," he insists, eyeing the progress of his companion toward the office. The third, who had until now had been quite content to linger in the background, steps forward into active participation in his official duties. His manner is tempered by a wary "Ma'am. May we have your name, please?" Ah. Names! Good things to have.
"Oooh, nice move," Jean approves, glancing down once at the foot in the door and then up to give the owner of it a smile in return. All smiles here today. "And Dr. Jean Grey. Apparently, I'm finally getting to the end of my fifteen minutes of fame. Now, -take your foot out of the door, and go sit down please-." she informs the pawn, tone resonant as she stares him down and implants a telepathic command to do just that, hand hovering over the 'close door' button, ready to mash it at a second's notice.
Well, that takes neat care of the officious one, but the other (tsk, Mr. Black Pawn) draws a handy little devise designed to restrain unwilling but potentially powerful visitors to the Club. "Hold it, Ma'am," he drones flatly, Yeah, he's afraid he won't have a job in about ten minutes, but better than having his balls stomped on by the new security lady. "Anderson. Grey on the admittance list?" he shouts down to the other man, who /was/ reaching for the phone.
Jean eyes the taser and sighs, pointing out that "You can shoot that thing at me if you like, but it's really not going to work if I'm expecting it. I'm going to hit the button to close the door now, but if you want to ride upstairs with me and make sure I don't try and kill anyone, you're welcome to do that." Pointedly, she hovers her hand over the close button again, letting the determined one make his choice without sending him to take a seat too.
"Ma'am, are you /trying/ to get us busted? Cause if you're /not/ on that list, and I let you upstairs without /their/ permission, it's /my/ butt inna sling." He's sincere, if nothing else. Down the hall, Anderson is bouncing at a keyboard, trying to force the appearance of a certain email by sheer mental force. Which, considering the current company, is a rather sad attempt. The phone receiver is held loosely in one hand, beeping annoyingly at him.
"I understand that, Mr..." Jean quests about looking for a nametag, before giving up and continuing. "But if I'm not on the list, it's solely because Sebastian didn't tend to it before leaving on his business trip. I assure you I'm not trying to cost you your job, but it -is- fairly critical I go see Emma. Now. Feel free to say I mentally hijacked you and made you take me upstairs, or whatever tantalizing tale works for you if it turns out I'm lying."
Mental hijacking? Oh, yeah, /riiiiight/! /That/ Dr. Jean Grey! Eep. "Yeah, Grey. Jean Grey. Legacy," Anderson shouts back in time to prevent whatever little bit of stupidity that Mr. ... might have felt compelled to commit. The pawn wheezes and drops his arm, adopting a sickly sheepish grin as he bends into a bow and steps back. Good pawn. Anderson peeks around the corner and cants his head, only daring to whisper "Who the hell was that?" after the doors shut.
"Thank you, Mr. Smith," Jean resists the urge to reassuringly pat the arm of sickly-looking pawn, whom she's decided to give a name since he won't supply one, and instead waves him off the elevator with a dignifiedly pleasant air. Ding! Some of her forward momentum lost due to the slowdown, mere minutes though it was, she refocuses herself on the short ride up the elevator, and by the time it decants her onto the upper levels she's resumed the firmly cadenced stride that first bore her in, arrowing in on Emma's office with head held high. << Good morning, Ms. Frost, this is your wake-up call, >> she greets ahead of herself.
<< Get out, >> is the pleasant greeting that is returned immediately. It appears Ms. Frost was awake, and had some sort of warning. Perhaps the panicky pawns, or maybe Anderson actually managed to finally complete that call. Whatever the case, the door to Emma's office is closed and locked, and on the other side of it, Emma waits, eyeing the same door in guarded expectation.
<< So we'll invade others' minds without a whisper or a care, but our physical space is sacred above all else? >> Jean wonders, resting a hand on the door and letting a ribbon of telekinetic force extend outward to feel the lock and get a sense of its workings and arrangements. << A little hypocritical, Emma old girl. >>
<< Old girl, is it? >> Emma returns, the smirk weaving through her tone, strengthening the shields surrounding her mind with its cold flatness. << If I recall correctly, it is you who is the /old/ one. Or maybe it's the cares of the world you insist on shouldering that makes you so haggard, darling. >> She ambles slowly to the center of the room and plants herself, arms folded, facing the door.
<< And she waltzes completely over the acusation to pick at the term of address, >> Jean dissects Emma's reply with the mental gleam of a surgeon's knife, notably unruffled. << Did I hit a nerve there, for such a studied lack of response. But I'm not going to break down your door, >> she assures, still assessing the mechanisms of the lock all the same. << I really think it'll make much better telling if I recount to Sebastian about how you were hiding your office like a cat under a couch when I came to pay a visit. >>
A gleam of interest, like sunlight hitting a snowy field, that is tapped down immediately. << Oh do. By all means. I'm sure Sebastian will stroke your ego for the effort as well. >> Sebastian, not Shaw. And when so few actually address him by his given name. Hmm. No, Dr. Grey. That little taunt will not goad Emma into unwise action. Not yet, anyway.
<< Oh, my ego is grown quite as large as I'd like it to, I have no need of his ministrations, >> Jean replies, a little spiral of merriment skirling out from her mind and dancing around the fringes of Emma's before dissipating. << I'm just thinking of his own battered and weary soul, desperate for some crumb of amusement, no matter how stale and tired the bread that it's come from. >> Experimentally, she lifts one tumbler in the lock, then the next, then the one after that, and then shuffles rapidly through them like one might drum their fingers. << I -am- the one of us shouldering the cares of the world, after all. Making sure that my fellow monarch's burden is light is the least I can do. >>
Fello-- HELL! Emma's shields snap up, effectively removing sense of her mental presence from the area, save for the clipped << You've overstayed my patience, Jean. Get out or I will have you removed. >> What game is she playing, and how does Sebastian fit into this. Her hand drops to spread her fingers wide over her stomach, nausea churning as a result of her forceful refusal to consider the explanations.
"Actually," Jean replies, ever so calmly, and aloud, disdaining the effort it would take to shout through the closed mental door of Emma's reinforced shields. "I now have the exact same right to be here as you. I thought I'd just drop by and say hello, one Queen to another." A pause, and oh, but that's an evil smirk on the Good Doctor Grey's face as she leaves off fiddling with the lock to run a finger along the broad leaf of a potted plant a step or two down the hall. "So," she wonders, all airy and pleasant and with an edge of agressive good cheer colouring her mind. "Can you recommend an office with a good view of the river?"
The door opens. It isn't yanked or flung, but is rather opened slowly and confidently, matching the cold, oh, so still mien of the office owner. Emma isn't dressed for the day, but the silk swirls of robe and gown serve nearly as well for courtly dress. "So. Sebastian has found himself another whore," she replies, tone clipped and precise, and brows lifting slightly as Jean's face falls into view. Yes. "I see he's already welcomed you to the Board."
Jean allows the inspection with her shoulders back and easy and a slight sideways tip to her chin, not bothering to conceal bruises and scabbed-over lip. She simply runs her fingers along the leaf of the potted plant again, and points out that "Actually, Sebastian's decided he's out of the princess-making business," she replies. "He's decided his attempt to come up with someone meek and biddable was an abject failure," She tips a fencer's nod to Emma, "Not to mention the fact that neither of us is the least attracted to the other, so I'm afraid 'whore' isn't exactly accurate. So, we're simply partners. Perhaps you should've negotiated a better deal when it was your turn."
"Oh, trust me, dear Saint Grey. You'll be his whore. Parceling out your talents and powers to his benefit, and he'll give you little more than a pat on the head." No, no bitterness there. Emma faces her opposite title and folds her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing as she continues to process the information, forcefully shielding her ire from mind and expression.
"You're projecting, Emma," Jean points out, still ever-so-calm and wandering a little further down the hall to crouch and inspect the next potted plant. Pawns and plants. Perhaps her inspection tour is on the 'P' part of the list today? Later, she'll venture to the kitchen for pies. "You were short-sighted when he took you on, willing to be submissive in exchange for a taste of power. -You- didn't consider the costs that early submission would demand of you. That's not my fault or my problem."
"Of course, /darling/," Emma hisses. "What twenty-one year old /does/. Your intuition is, of course, brilliant. What does it tell you about us, then, I wonder? Why does the ever-modest, ever-retiring Jean Grey venture into our halls, and as Black Queen, no less?"
"Emma, please, you're embarassing yourself," Jean replies, smile small due to the injured lower lip, but all the more smug for it. "If you're going to go fishing for information, at least try and be a -little- subtle about it. Or ask Shaw and see if -he'll- pat you on the head," she echoes the earlier statement of her opposite monarch. "Tell him all about how you oh-so-cleverly mentally seduced one Scott Summers because apparently your taste for self-destruction won't let you just be happy with your White King. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know you were bored enough to start a lover's spat."
"Oh, so you've discovered my little game with Scott? Is that what this..." she flings a hand wide, "charade is about? No..." her eyes slide back, speculative and suspicious. "You've been playing this game longer than that, in order to have earned the cooperation of Sebastian. That or he's once again slid into complacency and senility, and I doubt /that/. So much paranoia..." A wintry, suggestive smile. Be careful. Becarefulbecarefulbecareful. When Emma self-destructs, she brings everyone around her down with her. "So. We return, once again, to the question of what brings you here."
"Actually, -you- return again," Jean replies, rising and lifting an eyebrow at Emma as she lets a single finger rest against her lower lip. "If you expect to get answers just because you want them, well..." Cue a smile less smug and more glittering. "Get used to disappointment. I have other things to tend to this fine morning, so I'm not staying long. We should do lunch."
"Actually," Emma echoes, pursing her lips into a tight smirk, "I /do/ expect to. If not from you, darling, then from others." A pause, and her arms drop, twitching the edge of her robe to fall into better lines. "Don't let me keep you, pet. I'm sure there are kittens aplenty waiting your rescue."
"Oh yes, knights and bishops and rooks and pawns, to your all-controlling queen." Jean gives a nod to that, as if Emma's just triggered some bit of academic recall by her words. "Well, I'd hate to disappoint your people by just telling you, Emma. How dull would their lives be if you always got what you wanted?" She turns on her heel just then, one hand settling in the pocket of the neat and highly-fitted black blazer, and the free one settling anew the scarf she'd used to cover her hair. "And Emma?" she offers as a parting shot. "Leave Scott and the rest of my people alone. You're powerful, but you lack a certain... finesse." And with a steady clack of boot heels, away Jean goes.
Emma bites down on her tongue hard. And literally. The pain distracting her enough to accomplish it's goal, but not enough to keep the mental << Bitch! >> from escaping her control. It's a good minute of barely restrained, tremble-inducing fury that keeps her planted in place, ice-darkened glare fixed on the corner Jean had just disappeared around.
And, from today:
X-Men MUCK - Friday, September 09, 2005, 1:28 PM
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Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Shaw ]
It's not laziness that has Jean Grey still wrapped in a blue dressing gown at 9 AM. It's not even purposeful luxury and indolence. No, the reason that her scavenged scrubs and comfortable old tank top are veiled by softly susurrating silk is merely because she's gotten wrapped up in the morning news crawl and email blitz, and has yet to get past the teeth brushed, hair tidy, and mug of coffee in hand stage. Clicky, clicky, clicky, and still more reports on stricken Senators flip into tabs of her web browser, a cordless phone trapped between shoulder and ear as she chats with a colleague who just happens to work down at Walter Reed. Patient/Doctor confidentiality can be neatly circumvented by deciding that Dr. Jean Grey, specialist in mutant medicine, should somehow give a consultation in a case where the only mutants were the ones the victims were arguing about.
No appointment, no call ahead, no warning at all but for his own presence outside in the hall: Shaw comes a-visiting at Jean's door like a travelling thundercloud. His emotional and mental output is dampened to minimal amounts, mind, so that he is a /small/ thundercloud, but a thundercloud still. Stratocumulus Sebastianus.
Jean's answer to spotting a thundercloud on the edges of her calm blue mental sky? A quick "I'll have to call you back, Ravi. Something's -just- come up." Click goes the phone, and the laptop is abandoned on her kitchen island as she abandons her seat as well to go pad, barefoot on the softly polished wood, to the door to open it just as Shaw arrives. "What happened?" is asked without preamble, Black Queen to Black King in favoured frankness as she waves him in without further ado.
Shaw accepts the invitation, and the frankness, with quiet step and guarded sidelong look as he moves past her into the apartment. Clad in simple brown dress shirt and darker slacks, he has the obvious strain of a mostly sleepless night marking him in stark lines of face, hollowed eyes, tense twitching at noises -- and, of course, that thunderous telepathic aspect. "I spoke with Emma last night," he answers, then draws a breath. "Rather, she spoke with me. I have a few questions for you now, and then I'll explain myself, and then you can turn the interrogation back on me if you want. All right?"
Good God, the telepathic aspect. Jean's eyes unfocus for a moment as she reinforces her shields to filter it accordingly. Early in the day, and still somewhat sleepy-suggestible for it, she needs not the emotional feeder bands being flung out from the whirling center of Shaw. Nodding her head towards the kitchen area, she offers "Coffee?" and a simple aquiescing nod as she smooths a hand down the dressing gown's front, a brief check for decency.
"No, thank you. I'm practically surfing on it right now, to keep myself going." Shaw twists a smile for the humor, rising to social requirements with weary experience. "Some water would be good, please. May I have a seat?"
"'Seat' yourself," Jean quips, proving that it's never too early and rarely too serious for a mild pun. She turns to collect a tall glass from a cupboard, and pops it under the water tap of the fridge, some chunks of ice added for finishing touches. Handing it over, she then boosts herself to a seat on the counter with a propped hand, leaning her head lightly against the fridge and settling expectant green eyes on Shaw. "So," she asks again, but leaves the question hanging. To business.
Yes. Quite. Shaw settles on a stool at the breakfast bar and places the water, after a quick, automatic sip, on the counter before him. His hands cup large and long-fingered around it. He studies it, studies them, and in the contemplation, thunder moves off, or else narrows down to pinpoint, silent focus behind his eyes, to trouble her no more. After a moment, he says without looking up. "Emma called you a 'Xavierite.' 'Heart and soul,' no less. Can you explain to me what she meant by that?"
"It means that I was the very first of Charles Xavier's students," Jean replies simply, spreading her hands and keeping her body language neutral, although she remains quite watchful over Shaw. Not notably defensive, merely attempting to attune herself to his moods and modes. "It means that yes, I do believe that the philosophy he follows is a good one, and that integration and education, and people succeding on their personal merits, not what's in their gene scans, is the way of a successful future. It doesn't mean I'm his puppet or cat's paw, or that I blindly follow ever word of his as if it's law." She pauses, and allows a sly, determined little smile to slip onto her freshly-healed lips. "It also means that I'm going to have loyalties and protective impulses about my colleagues and my students 'til the day I die. Considering Emma decided to torpedo her own love life by mentally luring one old schoolmate into sleeping with her, then letting the other old schoolmate she's involved with catch them in the morning, I suspect she's probably huffy that I told her she really ought not to do that again." The 'or else' is left silent.
Shaw's eyes rise, dark and deep and soul-tired, to watch her in return through the answer, which he accepts without comment or question. Instead, he responds, "That was my second point: how she knew about you joining the Inner Circle. You confronted her, then."
"Mmhm." Jean agrees, eyes steady on Shaw's, although without the particularly hypnotic quality of a telepath at work. "You encouraged me to rattle her, so I paid a visit the morning after our discussion. Tested the pawns on duty to see how well they'd respond to someone just sailing in off the street, and then dropped a few conversational bombs through a closed door until she finally stopped hiding under her desk and came out to talk to me. She wanted answers, I declined to give them, got her to call me a bitch, and left."
A brief headshake breaks the visual contact, though Shaw renews it after he has another sip of water. He runs a hand down the countertop, leaving rapidly drying streaks of condensation from the glass; he sighs. "I have no quibbles about a confrontation. I just wanted to establish the fact of it. Thank you. My last--" He breaks off, rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose for a scattered moment until he has the threads caught up again. "My last question, for now, at least," he resumes more strongly and looks up at her. "What /are/ your loyalties?"
"First and foremost, to the people under my protection," Jean answers promptly, ticking points off against her fingers and sliding off the countertop to lean back against it instead. "Mess with my friends and loved ones, and I -will- bring you down. I don't think that's unreasonable. Warren, as the White King, well, he's not exactly in need of my protection, but I'd prefer him -not- to be assassinated, folded, spindled or mutilated, because he does remain my friend. But he's chosen to side with Emma, so..." She trails off and spreads her hands, metaphorically cleansing them of any future blood. She pauses to get a look at Shaw, and then continues. "After that, my loyalty is to myself. I'm not going to compromise who I am and what I stand for for you. You come in third place. I'm your Queen, I'm here to support you, back you and help you in whatever you may want me, so long as it doesn't conflict with the first two loyalties."
"Thank you," Shaw repeats quietly when she's done. He sits up to drain off the rest of the water, then hunkers again on elbows' brace. One hand slides the glass to her; the other cups his brow as he stares down at the counter for a long minute. Thoughts pop and fizzle sluggishly, even on caffeine's hectic energy, and his emotional presentation is as flat as his voice and that black-eyed stare, which comes up to her again. Dropping both hands together in a loose clasp, he says, "And now I promised an explanation."
"That you did," Jean agrees. She retrieves her cup of coffee, takes a seat at the breakfast bar beside Shaw, and sips expectantly.
Shaw shifts weight and attention to adjust to her move, though he doesn't face her, quite. "Emma is upset about this move, as I expected. I didn't expect her to be quite so irrational about it, however, all things considered. She'll get over it, or she won't." He huffs a small breath; exhausted humor stirs, stills. "We can take care of ourselves, at any rate, so it doesn't matter too much. I would wish ... no, it doesn't matter. I brought up Wide Awake. I think I genuinely surprised her." He does glance at Jean for that, gauging her own response.
"Perhaps I rattled her a little -too- well," Jean muses, tone dryly self-deprecating as she watches Shaw in profile, taking in little lines of tension, little traces of fatigue. Theories are spun, discarded, and reexamined again, and her reaction is merely one of steady consideration. "It doesn't surprise me that she would have been," she replies. "While everything I did to gather data is from the public record, the initial tips that set me to looking where I could find things are from sources she doesn't believe would talk to me."
"Makes sense," Shaw says to it all, and he's considering, too, although it's turned inward, not on her. "I led her to believe that I'd found out about the project through Dynamo, not you ... and I got her to list the names of those involved and their contributions. It matches, Jean. I don't know if you needed confirmation from her mouth, but there it is." He rubs his eyes again, then elbows the bar on a turn to her, a heavy lean, but a little lightening in his manner: game response to game's challenge, flickers of pride in his work and himself. "She said she and Worthington are the only ones with copies of the plan. If you're wanting to track this business and do -- whatever you're wanting to do with it, maybe you can call on your old schoolmate. Or maybe not. He /has/ thrown in with her. They're in love. They're fools," he mutters.
"It's not exactly needed, but it -is- comforting," Jean replies, venturing a small smile. "Thank you. And in return, while she and Warren are the only ones with copies of the plans, their genesis was in the mind of one General William Stryker. Who appears to have been captured by one Erik Lensherr. Not much of an information trade, I know, but there you go. Something to hang over her head if you feel like it." She sips at her coffee, and ventures that "I don't have to be a telepath to sense that that's not all. You're depressed."
Shaw flattens a hand to the counter, the fingers spreading a bit as if for further bracing. "I'll remember that information, thanks." His gaze swings over the kitchen. Back to her, and it hoards a small smile that brushes his mouth for only an instant. "I'm usually depressed these days. Don't worry about it; I'm still functioning, and I function very well, indeed. About the rest of last night, though..." Again he pauses, glances at her. Frowns this time, with the coals of old, familiar anger flaring to life. "Can you give me some instruction in telepathic shielding? Emma treated me like a marionette. I'm tired of that. Heartily. However I might provoke her ... I don't /rape/ her like that. If there's anything you can do to help, I'd appreciate it."
"Well, there are limits," Jean warns, making no promises she cannot keep, and steeping her fingers over her coffee cup. "No matter how good a student you might make, you're still a baseline human as far as your brain's psionic sector can go. Emma will always be able to reach in and make you a marionette, if she expends enough energy." That prognosis delivered, medically precise and pessimistic, along comes the optimism, right on schedule. "But I can teach you to shield thoughts, and I can teach you how to fight her influence enough to make it worth more than her while. On the downside, this will take time and effort, and you'll have to trust me enough to let me into your mind, if you want to reach the higher levels. On the upside, I don't think -mental- warfare should take anything off your life and health."
Shaw snorts. "I'll take what I can get, Jean, and to hell with my life and health, which don't matter, anyway, if I'm dancing like a puppet on her string." << Or yours, >> slips out, and he grimaces. "Sorry, if you caught that."
"I did, but it's understandable," Jean waves off, unoffended. "I hold no illusions about the fact that a great deal of why you've handed me this position at your side is because you want to fight fire with fire as far as telepathy goes. Fire's hard to trust, even if you've set it yourself." Philosophy offered, she resumes watching him, deciding once again that "There's more, isn't there?"
Shaw makes a little smile for her understanding, but it drops quickly enough, and he shrugs. His answer is still flat in voice, but riptides of emotion tug hard through dark baritone and mind. "I offered to resign from the Circle and go back to Pennsylvania if they'd agree to it and to letting me live."
"You -what-?" Not quite into capital letters, but with italics clearly audible, Jeans hands drop from her coffee mug to instead grab at the sides of her dressing gown before she schools them to stillnes again. "What on earth happened? I'm hardly an aspect of the Almighty, but I'd like to think I can read people reasonably well, and I got the impression that the Circle -is- your life."
Not above glancing amusement at her reaction, Shaw nevertheless mutes it to give her another shrug and another answer. "It is, and look at what it's doing to me. It's killing me -- oh, not as surely as, say, my mutation is, or even the drinking and smoking I still like so well. But I kick those habits for years at a time whenever I think I should, and I can kick this habit, too, if I need to." He gazes solemnly at her, his expression unguarded for once, and his mental defenses dropped, too. "I'm tired, Jean. I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm frustrated, I'm fed up -- why /shouldn't/ I go? That's what I asked her, and of course, she thought I was playing another game with her. I might've been, on some level, but it doesn't change the underlying truth: the Circle doesn't need me as much as I need it, the Circle is failing me as much as I'm failing it, and I /have/ my pride and an instinct for self-preservation, thanks." Pause. "She did give me her word that I could go without penalty. But I wanted Wide Awake stopped if I did, and she didn't -- wouldn't -- grant me that. So I'm stuck for now, or at least until I decide my hide is more important than this idiotic project."
"I'd point out that, as a mutant, your hide is probably dependant on stopping the idiotic project," Jean offers frankly. "Since, should you resign from the Circle and leave them to it, there's no reason why they wouldn't send a few prototypes to come a-knocking on your door when they eventually succeed with it. Which I have no doubt they will, left to their own devices. But, self-preservation aside, you're a proud man as you say, Sebastian," she states the obvious, getting to her feet in order to borrow from the greeks and indulge in peripatetic ponderings. "A driven man. Heading off back to Pittsburgh to hide and live out your remaining score of years, I think you'd probably end up killing yourelf all the more quickly, leaving such a huge part of your life unfinished and at loose ends. A doctor has to consider the quality of life of her patient, not just the length of it."
"That /is/ one reason I want it shut down, and one reason to stay on." Shaw edges around on his stool, hooking elbows on the bar behind him, to watch her thoughtful wanderings. "And I don't trust them, I'd rather steward such nonsense myself if it /must/ go on ... but it shouldn't. God, it really shouldn't. Have they even thought about if this gets out to the press? Do they not care? None of us is above the law; none of us is above public humiliation, if nothing else. I know this technology will happen sooner or later, and they'd probably rather control it now while they can, but it's still /absurd./" Ah, anger: trust that to rouse a slumbering, sluggish Black King.
"You can't uninvent an atomic bomb," Jean agrees with a shake of her head, sharp and focused and feeding off the glowing embers of Shaw's ire to shore up her own banked fires. "And for the love of God, the consequences and implications of this technology go well beyond that. A simple programming tweak, and these beasties would go after anyone -not- a mutant. Or specifically target various races, or various families, or, hell, -anyone- sharing any genetic markers that have been selected for. Genie in a bottle, and they've pulled out the cork. So you want loyalty, Shaw?" she questions. "So help me, I'm stopping this, and I'll drag you along behind me if I have to. Worn old parade horse to my young sprinter," she offers an allusion to the ponies.
Shaw says softly, "I'm tired of getting dragged around, though I appreciate the sentiment. Jean ... I might or might not kill myself if I do go home again. A bullet to the head would be better than eventual death my genes have planned for me, right? But honestly, I don't have all that much to live for if I don't have the Inner Circle. My life can be finished whenever I decide it, and I don't have loose ends to worry about." His voice roughens, and his eyes gleam damply, but he doesn't notice, or doesn't mind. "I have no legacy, either, it's true, but hell, who does? I appreciate your doctorly concern. It's kind of you, and very proper and professional. But you don't need to lay it on me. It isn't necessary. Save your energy for this fight of yours."
"At the moment, Sebastian," Jean replies, tone soft but far from pitying. "This fight of mine is tied up in you. You probably rage a fair bit at having to need me at all," she surmises, stepping over to him and settling a hand on the base of his neck, fingers probing at tensed muscles like a coach with a weary prize-fighter ten rounds in. "But I need you, if I'm going to pull this off, ride this tiger and survive without losing too many limbs. So, quite frankly," she informs him, a bit of bracing humour making a reappearance. "You've offered me a job and you're stuck with me now. Get used to having a supporter in the Circle."
Shaw closes his eyes: at the words, at the touch. Doesn't move away from either, but there's a flinch behind his ragged, rugged expression. "I don't," he says after a minute, slitting the near eye open at her. "Rage, that is. This is the course I've chosen, and I'll follow it for as long as it pays off. Raging against it, or against you or myself, is a waste of time. We move ever onward; we have to, because that damn tiger really is hungry."
"Don't s'pose Emma likes bloody steaks," Jean offers, a bit of black humour. She notes the flinch, but there's now a certain amount of medical interest invested, and so she probes a little more, fingers seeking out knots and pressure points in an attempt to grant at least some small release. Shaw could be Charles Manson at this point, but he still possesses a spine, and an unhappy spine, and Jean is drawn to Fixing Things like a bee to nectar. "So, now that Emma knows you know, and knows I'm her new opposite, what's our next move? More surprise? Shock and Awe? Or subtly trying to influence the white court out from under her?"
Shaw snorts to the suggestion, and silken, sleek black stripes on orange leap for a moment through his foremind. Rawr. "I think I'll keep my distance from her -- although I don't know." His muscles might be relaxing under the prodding, but he's frowning through appropriately tigrish thoughts, plans, contingencies, options, probabilities. "There /is/ something to be said for the shock-and-awe approach. She was throwing a tantrum last night over you; I might be able to press that to a breaking point and see what comes spilling out." Then he slides his Queen a small grin. "And I /have/ been influencing her pieces. I'm on relatively good terms with her Rook, at least superficially. I have been working over two of her pawns. I've known her new Bishop for years and have been leaning on him very productively lately. If you have ideas in that direction yourself, by all means, go for it. I want to rule this Circle, but I want it whole and united under me when I do, White and Black."
"Well, I did once hire Emma's new Queen's Knight to do a little job for me," Jean allows, fanning out her own cards prettily, and leaning at an uncomfortable angle to get both of her hands on Shaw's shoulders, thumbs working away at complaining trapezius muscles. "And Tessa Lesair... actually, I ran across her before you or Emma ever did," she reveals. "Although she didn't want to split her loyalties by continuing to associate with me, there's still friendly feeling. More than I can say about for her and you, I gather."
A big paw reaches up and folds around one of her hands. Shaw's emotion zings more strongly through the contact: irritation over anger over disgust, and a nugget of regret buried in the shimmering, sucking folds. "I'm fine," he says, "and I don't feel comfortable right now with this, please." Letting her go, he doesn't move any more than required to turn his head for sloe-eyed study. "I made a mistake with Tessa, and she's gone down a new path, yes. She wants me dead. I imagine she spends a good deal of time thinking about it, planning it, working towards it -- and from what Emma's told me, the White King would not be discouraging, although he wants to see me broken first. Splendid folks you've spent time with, Jean, or do I just bring it out in them?"
Jean removes her hands at that, settling into a seat and settling them into her lap, clutching lightly to make them behave. But... but... he's not *fixed* yet. "I'd say it's probably your charming influence," she replies thoughtfully to the rhetorical question. "When faced with a practising social Darwinist, if your reputation holds true in fact, the worst as well as the best of people tends to get brought forth. Although in Tessa's case, I think there was a little underlying mental instability. It's common enough, in telepaths."
Shaw twitches a shallow nod. "And I didn't help by pushing her on that front. A mistake. We both know it. I even apologized, to little avail. The last time I saw her, she was spitting death threats, giving me unbelievable attitude for our respective positions, thinking that we were /equals/ in some insane way...." He grits his teeth on a stop. "I'm sorry. Still upset about it, obviously. At least she wasn't throwing knives at me that time, unlike at our prior meeting. She wants the White Queen's throne, you know, and now she'd have to knock you off to do it. That's how our royal succession runs: Black removed yields to White, White to Black, and round and round we go."
"Well, on the upside, I'm nicely impervious to thrown knives, if I have the slightest inkling that they're headed my way," Jean offers, with more black humour. "God, what a mess. But I suppose I can expect a visitation from her at some point, if I don't decide to visit her first?" she questions, glancing down at her dressing gown as if aware for the first time that she's still wearing it. "I can see the sense of such a system, allowing different schools of thought to alternate their time in the sun, but removal... Always fatal?" she questions. "Seems a bit of a waste of what are clearly some talented people to get this far."
"I don't know if she'll visit you. I don't know if she knows about you, but let's assume she does, if Emma does. The whole White Court should; that kind of news travels fast." Shaw rubs his hands idly on his knees, his gaze abstracted somewhere in the middle distance while he keeps thinking. His reply to the question comes as absently: "Not a policy I'd choose to follow to the letter in all cases, and not one I /am/ following right now, in one case before me, but then, I'm not the Circle's ruler. Yet. I hate waste, always have. There are better ways to do this whole secret-cabal business...."
"Glad to hear it," Jean nods, eyes narrowing in consideration. "Far better to foster development rather than a sense of kill or be killed. Hardly educational. -- Oh, and that reminds me, Tyanna Fiske's the White Rook, right?" she questions, reaching for her laptop to bring up Shaw's latest missive to her. "She's a former student of mine. For all Emma sneers about Xavierites, she's in love with one and has another guarding her."
Shaw turns on the stool to see, too. "/Really./ Yes, that's her. We have a friendly sort of relationship: gifts traded, trips taken out on her boat." He rests his weight on arms folded to the counter and shakes his head. "Emma isn't the most logical of people, but she does choose and groom her pieces well. Worthington, I still don't understand except as a figurehead to replace me -- I never even see the boy around -- but Fiske is a good choice. Oh. Speaking of Rooks, I think you need to meet mine; I've already pointed her your way, in fact. Sal Harper, of the selfsame protection-services company new in town out of Houston. I know you can guard yourself, but every little bit helps, right? She's weeding out the Black Pawns and getting them into shape, too."
"I have to say I was fairly impressed with the pawns hanging about the club," Jean offers. "I rattled them a bit, but they recovered nicely, and the one with the taser managed to keep a hold of himself while he was pointing it at me, which is tricky. Although I guess a taser's a bit different than a real gun." She trails off to ponder that for a bit, before giving a nod. "Even if I can protect myself, I do leave my car parked in a public area and there -are- people who'd not mind blowing me up. Does Ms. Harper offer that sort of security as well?"
"Full service," Shaw assures her with a smile that floats over, oh, any number of swift, ephemeral mental currents. "Rook guards the monarchs, and she is extremely dedicated and professional in her duties. /I/ trust her, if that gives you an idea of her worth."
Interesting currents indeed. Jean lifts an eyebrow at things unspoken, but it arches higher at the encomium delivered to Sal Harper's address. "It does indeed. I think I need to meet the woman," she decides. "Now, do you mind if I ask whether you have any particular areas you'd like me to tend to?" she questions. "Emma's remarks about my being your new whore aside, you know this particular battlefield better than I do."
Shaw gives her wide, and heartily amsued, eyes at the passed-along remark. "She said that? She thinks worse of you than she does me. How ... pleasant. --No, not particularly. Well, wait." He drums fingertips on the bar, blinks through recollection. "She said that if I wanted to dig up dirt on the other Wide Awake players -- to keep myself out of jail as a patsy, you understand -- I should send my people to her because nearly everyone involved with the project is 'indisposed,' by her words. Do you know anything about that? With your sources, could you look into it? You investigated this far without setting off her tripwires, so..."
"Oh, I think she's projecting more than a little bit. She whored -herself- for power and admits it quite readily," Jean allows with more than a little amusement. "Clearly, that's the only working relationship possible with you, don't you know. But I'll see what I can't find out," she promises, drumming her fingers consideringly on the edge of her laptop. "Granted, it will take time to do it properly, since the rest of the world needs to see me pulling my on-call hours at Lennox Hill, and making sure my mice are properly mutated and thriving. And while I've removed myself from the immediate public face of mutant rights, out of concern fro your digestion, I'm still organizing and advising in the background... any up and coming Club business I should be aware of?"
Shaw tips his head back a little in pondering. (No comment about whoring relationships. None at all, though blackened and burnt entertainment does slip mentally past--) "Nothing outstanding," he finally decides, "and I mean it in all senses of the word. I'll send you the next month's social calendar when I get back to my office. Mostly fundraisers, I think, but you'd expect that." His regretful smile fades quickly. "Do you still want to fit in that trip to my lab in Albany, or is your schedule entirely too full right now?"
"Naturally." Jean seems notably unsurprised by the notion of fundraisers. "I'll go see about picking up a few more cocktail dresses, then. And I think Albany would be great, actually," she assures. "I swear, some days I think the city will eat me alive, so a chance to escape and make intelligent-sounding noises about manufacturing processes sounds about right. And of course the trip up would be a good chance to discuss anything I find. Is there an airport near there? I have my pilot's license, and it's hard to bug a rented Cessna."
"I have a private jet," Shaw chooses to point out with a smile, "and the club has a helipad if you'd rather try that mode of transportation. We can discuss details later, then. No rush, but /I/ should be going, at least." That segue, less smooth than usual, but he does make an apologetic gesture as he slides off the stool. "Emma chose in her rage yesterday to out the Inner Circle to my personal attorney, and I have to go do some damage control if I can."
"Helicopters are a bitch to fly, though," Jean has to admit with a playfully sad little moue. "Perhaps when I'm forty I'll take up learning that as a project. But jets are lovely. Lear?" she questions, before reining in the mild technical interest and smoothing a hand across her robe again. "And I should probably actually stop lounging around and get ready for some meetings. Apologies for being a bit underdressed, by the by. And good luck with the damage control."
Shaw says simply, "I never noticed. Yes, it's a Lear, with some customization to my specifications. You can prowl through it to your heart's content if you want." Standing there, he falls silent then, and his gaze, his attention, the heavy and hard mind behind, are all keen on her. Then he nods. And smiles again, a smaller but truer blossom of expression. "Thank you for the support, Jean. We'll see how it goes now. Call me if you need anything."
"I promise your pilot will probably end up submitting a request to have me banned from the cockpit," Jean assures gravely, eyes a-twinkle as she rustles over to show Shaw to the door. "And you're welcome, Sebastian," she answers, as quietly genuine as the smile gifted to her. "We'll see this through and I'll be in touch. You still owe me a tour of the club, some afternoon when you're trying to avoid some annoying meeting."
Shaw barks a short laugh as he opens the door himself, and props it to answer her over his shoulder. "Which is /most/ afternoons these days. And you owe me a check-up, I think, though I did refrain from picking up any exotic bug on vacation. I hope." He grins. "Talk to you later, then. Good luck with your own meetings."
"And also with yours," Jean replies, a solemn and ceremonial hand lifted to complete the impression of some church vicar seeing a parishioner out the chapel and back into the outside world. Once Shaw's safely outside, she shuts the not so dread portal behind her, and is soon back to her emailing and news reading. And thinking some serious thoughts about a certain well-stuffed dossier courtesy of a certain terrorist overlord.