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Was it him? Was that Mystique's warning?
Am I the cause of this?
If so... well. I abandoned conscience some time ago.
Percy emerges from the relative quiet of his office on the way to the bathroom and into a dull roar, the kind that means the absence of productivity. The flatscreen displays have all been tuned to newschannels, the usually minimal volume pumped up. A grave newscaster is talking; there is a ticker. Percy asks, "What's going on?" but nobody is especially inclined to answer, so he looks at the TV instead. "--no word yet on the President's whereabouts, but Vice President Richards has been recalled--"
"Talhurst." Shaw is standing out, arms crossed as he watches the newscast, a set look on his face. "We don't really know. They're not returning calls," he says, "which means a problem. Someone will contact us soon, I'm sure."
Percy frowns at the screen for a moment, running his tongue along his teeth. He smooths a hand through his hair. "If Richards has been recalled," he starts to say and then stops. "Damn." He falls into more silence. The news falls into more speculation.
"They'd recall the Vice President if there was a hangnail," Shaw dismisses. "No, what worries me is the talking heads - the lack of statements, and the people not picking up phones."
Percy draws a thoughtful thumbnail beneath the curve of his lower-lip. Then he leans forward onto one of the secretarial desks as he watches the continuing broadcast. "Well, any time shots are fired on the motorcade I imagine it's something of a madhouse," he starts to say. More news breaks; more tremors of agitation, not his own, prickle through the air, and Percy sucks on his lower lip. Roger Lowe has been rushed to Walter Reed.
"The question we should be asking is who," Shaw replies coolly. It's a brief look around. "Sharon," he says to one of the secretaries. "Could you call the department heads in munitions and tell them I want to see plans for production increases within the hour?"
"The question we should be asking is 'who else,'" Percy says after a moment as activity thrums to an urgent chord around them -- people moving about, people making phone calls, people talking rapidly. "This is mutant."
Shaw pauses. "Mutant?" he asks, and then he turns back to Sharon. "Put Plastics on the call, too." A slow track of his eyes to Percy. "You're sure?"
Percy points at the screens. CNN. Fox News. MSNBC. "They are."
"What do you think we sho--" Shaw pauses, cutting himself off. "We'll need to talk about this," he says. "All of us."
Percy's status is not wholly unknown to the company; it is a secret less cast iron than some, considering the circumstances of his hiring, and the inevitable industry connections between companies. There are those who know. He catches himself wondering how many of the secretaries are among that number; how many of them are watching him; and smiiiles through his paranoia. "We should get everyone in who isn't overseas, then," he says lightly. Little White Pawn in his navy suit, he covers blithely. "All department heads meeting tomorrow?" He checks his watch. "Tonight? If we want HR, Tully is in Toronto until late."
"We'll put them on a call," Shaw replies. "HR will be important, too - hirings." He pauses. "I know Linden took a vacation day today; we'll have to call him in."
"Hirings. Sensitive positions." Percy gives his boss a gallows grin.
"I think a lot of discussion about roles is going to be crucial," Shaw says with a smile far more wolfish. "But..." Word cuts in, and grave news is delivered to a sudden chorus of cries. Shaw merely pauses, breathing in and out, and then delivers an "Ah."
Percy turns his gaze to the screen again. He ducks his head, scratching his hand through his hair. In a breach of office decorum, he says, "Well, fuck." However, no one else in the ofice seems to be paying that much attention to office decorum at the moment.
Shaw's hand goes to the bridge of his nose, rubbing, and then he nods. "An appropriate sentiment," he says quietly. "Shit, Percy."
Percy's head tips, his fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes for a moment. "I never expected to live to see a presidential assassination," he says, his tone on the blank side. He shakes himself and looks up. "I think I have some phone calls to make."
"I was ten when they shot Kennedy," Shaw replies quietly. "I remember it - I mean, Pittsburgh is labor country. My mother cried and cried," he says. "Everyone did, out on their stoops - just wailing."
"I have no idea where William was or what he was doing," Percy says. His mouth twitches, a sardonic twist, and he shakes his head again. "No idea at all."
"I was coming home from school," Shaw says. "Playing with my friends when one of their mothers ran out onto the stoop and screamed."
Percy scrubs at the back of his neck and flickers another glance toward the television. He lets a breath of air hiss past his teeth. "Well. This situation is not exactly identical," he says, voice low and dry.
"No," Shaw agrees. "Kennedy was handsomer and had better taste in women." A pause, and then a low chuckle for Percy's ears. "If Kennedy had been alive, he would have been all over Emma in an instant..."
Percy snorts. "Uh-huh," he says. He looks back at the TV; he looks at his watch again. He sighs. "I should start making those calls. Have someone drop me a line when we get that meeting scheduled."
"Marilyn Monroe had nothing on Emma Frost," Shaw says with momentary unfocus. Then he nods. "I'll let you know, Percy," he says, clapping the man on the back. "It's good to see you around."
"Yes, really, we'll have to do this again sometime," Percy mutters under his breath, stricken by a flash of the absurd. He blinks, and turns to retreat to his office. He never did end up going to the bathroom.
"Sharon," Shaw says he turns back from Percy. "Get on the phone with the florist - we'll need a bouquet to send to the First Lady. As large as it can."
Am I the cause of this?
If so... well. I abandoned conscience some time ago.
Percy emerges from the relative quiet of his office on the way to the bathroom and into a dull roar, the kind that means the absence of productivity. The flatscreen displays have all been tuned to newschannels, the usually minimal volume pumped up. A grave newscaster is talking; there is a ticker. Percy asks, "What's going on?" but nobody is especially inclined to answer, so he looks at the TV instead. "--no word yet on the President's whereabouts, but Vice President Richards has been recalled--"
"Talhurst." Shaw is standing out, arms crossed as he watches the newscast, a set look on his face. "We don't really know. They're not returning calls," he says, "which means a problem. Someone will contact us soon, I'm sure."
Percy frowns at the screen for a moment, running his tongue along his teeth. He smooths a hand through his hair. "If Richards has been recalled," he starts to say and then stops. "Damn." He falls into more silence. The news falls into more speculation.
"They'd recall the Vice President if there was a hangnail," Shaw dismisses. "No, what worries me is the talking heads - the lack of statements, and the people not picking up phones."
Percy draws a thoughtful thumbnail beneath the curve of his lower-lip. Then he leans forward onto one of the secretarial desks as he watches the continuing broadcast. "Well, any time shots are fired on the motorcade I imagine it's something of a madhouse," he starts to say. More news breaks; more tremors of agitation, not his own, prickle through the air, and Percy sucks on his lower lip. Roger Lowe has been rushed to Walter Reed.
"The question we should be asking is who," Shaw replies coolly. It's a brief look around. "Sharon," he says to one of the secretaries. "Could you call the department heads in munitions and tell them I want to see plans for production increases within the hour?"
"The question we should be asking is 'who else,'" Percy says after a moment as activity thrums to an urgent chord around them -- people moving about, people making phone calls, people talking rapidly. "This is mutant."
Shaw pauses. "Mutant?" he asks, and then he turns back to Sharon. "Put Plastics on the call, too." A slow track of his eyes to Percy. "You're sure?"
Percy points at the screens. CNN. Fox News. MSNBC. "They are."
"What do you think we sho--" Shaw pauses, cutting himself off. "We'll need to talk about this," he says. "All of us."
Percy's status is not wholly unknown to the company; it is a secret less cast iron than some, considering the circumstances of his hiring, and the inevitable industry connections between companies. There are those who know. He catches himself wondering how many of the secretaries are among that number; how many of them are watching him; and smiiiles through his paranoia. "We should get everyone in who isn't overseas, then," he says lightly. Little White Pawn in his navy suit, he covers blithely. "All department heads meeting tomorrow?" He checks his watch. "Tonight? If we want HR, Tully is in Toronto until late."
"We'll put them on a call," Shaw replies. "HR will be important, too - hirings." He pauses. "I know Linden took a vacation day today; we'll have to call him in."
"Hirings. Sensitive positions." Percy gives his boss a gallows grin.
"I think a lot of discussion about roles is going to be crucial," Shaw says with a smile far more wolfish. "But..." Word cuts in, and grave news is delivered to a sudden chorus of cries. Shaw merely pauses, breathing in and out, and then delivers an "Ah."
Percy turns his gaze to the screen again. He ducks his head, scratching his hand through his hair. In a breach of office decorum, he says, "Well, fuck." However, no one else in the ofice seems to be paying that much attention to office decorum at the moment.
Shaw's hand goes to the bridge of his nose, rubbing, and then he nods. "An appropriate sentiment," he says quietly. "Shit, Percy."
Percy's head tips, his fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes for a moment. "I never expected to live to see a presidential assassination," he says, his tone on the blank side. He shakes himself and looks up. "I think I have some phone calls to make."
"I was ten when they shot Kennedy," Shaw replies quietly. "I remember it - I mean, Pittsburgh is labor country. My mother cried and cried," he says. "Everyone did, out on their stoops - just wailing."
"I have no idea where William was or what he was doing," Percy says. His mouth twitches, a sardonic twist, and he shakes his head again. "No idea at all."
"I was coming home from school," Shaw says. "Playing with my friends when one of their mothers ran out onto the stoop and screamed."
Percy scrubs at the back of his neck and flickers another glance toward the television. He lets a breath of air hiss past his teeth. "Well. This situation is not exactly identical," he says, voice low and dry.
"No," Shaw agrees. "Kennedy was handsomer and had better taste in women." A pause, and then a low chuckle for Percy's ears. "If Kennedy had been alive, he would have been all over Emma in an instant..."
Percy snorts. "Uh-huh," he says. He looks back at the TV; he looks at his watch again. He sighs. "I should start making those calls. Have someone drop me a line when we get that meeting scheduled."
"Marilyn Monroe had nothing on Emma Frost," Shaw says with momentary unfocus. Then he nods. "I'll let you know, Percy," he says, clapping the man on the back. "It's good to see you around."
"Yes, really, we'll have to do this again sometime," Percy mutters under his breath, stricken by a flash of the absurd. He blinks, and turns to retreat to his office. He never did end up going to the bathroom.
"Sharon," Shaw says he turns back from Percy. "Get on the phone with the florist - we'll need a bouquet to send to the First Lady. As large as it can."