Calling All Angels
We will teach them to threaten us - we will show them what it means to know the halls of power. They are outside, looking in. We are inside, looking down at all we command.
=NYC= Hidden Meeting Chambers - Lower Levels - Hellfire Clubhouse
This old basement has seen more activity in the last eighteen or so hours than it has all the months since... well, probably since Emma's shooting combined. The watchpost is a flurry of activity and a table has been put in the cell and used to spread out timelines and graphs and all sorts of paperwork. But here, in the quiet of the Meeting Room, where power shifts and changes hands like a dirty dollar bill, the tranquilty has not been breached, save by the White Queen, seated in her chair and deep in conversation with the White Bishop who lounges (Are you proud, Percy?) on the table in front of her.
Lounge he does: Adel laughs at something, all a graceful slouch, with no sign in the liquid twine of posture of Magneto-dealt crippling. He is immune to the fuss and flutter outside this room's doors; all of his attention is on the woman before him, his Queen.
Adel does not lounge. In contrast to his brother's liquid grace, he is stiff and irritable; the tension that sparks off him does not take an empath to sense, nor a pheromonists nose. It is the snap of word and gaze, and in the sharp gestures of his hand as he dismisses a pawn to send back on some truly meaningless task. He stalks into the room with little grace, entering before his King.
Bahir does not lounge. In contrast to his brother's liquid grace, he is stiff and irritable; the tension that sparks off him does not take an empath to sense, nor a pheromonists nose. It is the snap of word and gaze, and in the sharp gestures of his hand as he dismisses a pawn to send back on some truly meaningless task. He stalks into the room with little grace, entering before his King.
Percy slithers in, a sidling slouch to movement and posture; his hands are shrugged deep into the pockets of his suit-jacket. He is all pale grey and periwinkle, still dressed from the workday. In the inner sanctum of the Inner Circle, he is one face among many, the spotlight yielded to others; as an observer, he finds his place -- a new and different one, unexpected as a pinball's trajectory -- and goes there.
It is Shaw who enters, then - black suit, black shirt, black tie with a golden tack that makes a little crown upon his breast. Pawns flank him, and his smile gleams with dark humor as his thoughts remain behind some silvery cloud whose source is indicated at the gleam of metal by his ear. "My queen," he remarks with a light tone. "I do hope you'll forgive my tardiness - that you haven't longed too much."
In Shaw's wake, less anonymous than the pawns -- his guard, his Rook. Her face is composed, her thoughts less so; without Shaw's advantage, it's up to mental excercise and natural shielding to keep her thoughts hidden. In a room of three telepaths, hers is the distinct disadvantage. Despite this, she is still elegant in cinnamon and soft grey as she takes her place.
Irritation seeps afresh at Shaw's entrance, and she arches a brow at Adel, rolling her eyes and sharing a brief, but clear, disdain before turning a small smile up to the Black King's face and waving an indolently possessive hand at the throne next to hers. "Not at all, darling. But if you don't mind? We do have business to discuss."
Disdain is met with a smile and Adel slides his hand over Emma's shoulder as he scoots off the table to turn and stand at her side. If he leans against her in wanton, kept-boy fashion -- well, it's all for Adel's sake, and he glitters with bright and brittle assholishness.
Bahir does not glitter; he sits. It is as simple as that, and as silent.
Hands still in his pockets, Percy leans back on one heel and waits.
"Mmm, yes," Shaw replies, sauntering towards Emma. "Business." He pauses in front of her, reaching out to briefly pat a cheek before he plops into his own seat. "Someone bring wine?" he asks, and then holds out his hand as a Black Pawn fills it with a glass. "Please, please," he says diffidently. "Come everyone - take up a glass." Trusted pawns move, goblets of some rich red on trays as Shaw raises his glass to the room. "Blood," he says. "Blood, dead presidents, and God Save the Queen."
Sal's eyes move from her King to the rest of the Court, then back again. She declines a pawn's offer of a glass with a quiet gesture, hand moving in concert with the briefest shake of her head.
Emma's sits untouched in front of her, and she keeps a coolly bemused expression on her face as she watches his show of dramatics, with her hand curled under her chin for support. Around the room, others raise their glass (or don't) as they are so inclined, and Emma waits for their 'hear, hears' to fade before straightening in her seat and lifting her voice to carry. "Lowe is dead. His vice-president is a virtual unknown and lacks the force of personality to sustain Lowe's initiatives. We need to ensure that no one else can take up that fight."
Adel does not take the wine, as if for some peculiar reason he doesn't trust Shaw all telepathy-dampened and going on about blood, dead men, and God Save the Queen. He melts into his seat and turns attention to Emma. He does not go so far as to kick his feet up on the table, but it is a close thing.
Bahir starts to join the pawns and then turns 'round mid-step to go and take his seat at Shaw's side, like a good Bishop. Still, he is quiet, and fairly subdued.
Percy murmurs appropriately to the toast, because that is what you do, but he doesn't drink either. Maybe he drove!
"Some months ago," Shaw says to Emma, "I asked you to begin making preparations to bring Richards into the Club's sphere so we can control what he does - perhaps it is best to start there, then, with the status of White's efforts to do just that?" It's a small smile. "As for Lowe's reforms... why fight them?" He shrugs. "The flow of a river is a tool to be guided, not reversed, and targeting a martyr seems an awful lot of effort."
Sal is here to serve; she does not take part in the conversation beyond looking attentive.
"He's attended a few parties, had a few engagements, met a few people," Emma answers, a trifle sourly. "We have not extended the full weight of our... influence on him. Yet." The last is tacked on with added empahsis, as much a promise for the future as a defense of the past. "As for his reforms, they no longer serve /us/, that is why. There is no need to target the man. But the man's ideas need to be... stemmed." She inclines her head and gives him a narrow glance out of the corner of her eye.
And pretty.
Percy stands around looking attentive and pretty, too.
That Adel supports Emma needn't be said; it is in the sneer he gives Shaw and the slight glitter of approval he turns to Emma.
"How?" Bahir questions Shaw. He does so in a slight undertone, such that it doesn't carry farther than the Monarchs, both, but Adel picks it up easily. "Enough of this 'tool, guide, use' blah, blah. /How/? If you've no concrete way to make them serve our goals -- and what are our goals, by the way, behind the increase of your wealth? -- then they have lived past their use."
"Did I miss something?" Shaw wonders. "We're the Hellfire Club - wealth and power are our trade, and it is no surprise that we get them through the military-industrial complex. Eisenhower was no dummy." He shakes his head. "I don't see how aligning ourselves with tree-huggers - with mutant activists like our dear departed Black Queen - gets us anywhere," he says. "How does coming out in favor of tolerance put more Congressmen in our pocket? How does it fatten those pockets - or am I missing some goal? Did we have a vote on becoming philanthropists when I was asleep?"
"To what purpose?" It is a final bubble of determination, bursting over Bahir's expression to leave exasperation and wearingness in its wake; then he subsides -- physically, as well, slinking back low in a slouch.
Percy clenches his teeth and glares at a totally inoffensive patch of floor. As he is no longer anybody's Bishop, it's no longer politic to snarl at the Black King; remembering the humility of his station is a necessary chore. /His/ slouch is gone; he has stiffened straight, his hands still pocketed but curled into fists.
Attentiveness -- pretty attentiveness, at that -- turns to keen interest at Bahir's final words. Sal shifts forward even as he subsides, though her attention is drawn to the other side of the court. Eyebrows raise, and there is the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips as her gaze settles on Percy. Then it is gone, and she turns back to Shaw, focused and intent.
Emma turns in her seat, a surprised glance shot at the Black Bishop and nothing more. << Your brother does not support Sebastian's money-hunger, >> she observes silently to her own Bishop, then reaches out to draw Percy into conversation. << How much influence /does/ Bahir carry with him? >> Physically, she leans over the chair's arm, her own tucked tightly together, the folds of her cloak wrinkling in the bend of elbow. "How does money and power help us if they come to test us in our sleep? This is not about tolerance, Sebastian. This is about survival. We nearly lost our Bishops already. It is a fool who refuses to see themselves in another's vulnerabilities."
"Politely," Shaw replies, "I am of the opinion that the most successful Jew of history was Hitler, and for all the reasons you'd expect." A beat, and a vicious smile. "After all, he eliminated the competition." He gestures with his wineglass. "I acknowledge that grinding out another war against the target de jour lacks creativity, and that there is a measure of danger given our composition - and taking stricter steps to control that danger is required. The MRA, perhaps, is problematic, and we need to find a way to regain control of testing somehow - but where's the profit in advocating a gentler hand? Don't we profit more by selecting those mutants who might rival us and labeling as terrorists, as enemies of freedom and the state? After all, Harmid Karzai is a Muslim, and he seems to have done quite well for himself. Professor to President is no mean feat, even if Afghanistan is some shitpile in the mountains."
<< No. My brother is something of an idealist, >> Adel says with a flash of dark humor. << He's the good one. >> He recoils from the touch of Emma's mind when she reaches for Percy as well, leaving her to speak with Percy alone.
Percy opens his mind to the Queen's question: it does not have much in the way of actual information. << He holds Bahir as a thing of extreme value, like your dampener. As to influence I cannot speak. >> Talking to Emma, he loses the thread of what some of Shaw is saying; when he starts listening again, he bristles. << This is the damned Wide Awake idiocy all over again-->>
Bahir? He does nothing. He says nothing. He sits, and he in no /way/ sulks. Really.
"Label them terrorists and enemies of the state. But if we continue down the path we started with registration, we will lose control. After all," Emma leans closer, invading his personal space, "quite often the harder you hold on to a thing, the easier it slips away."
Sal, a space removed from Bahir, leans in close. It's across the Bishop that she speaks, her voice strong but pitched to carry to Shaw's ears. "Is there a point," she questions, "in having a Bishop when you do not /listen/?"
"Registration's dangerous," Shaw agrees. "Probably best for us to find a way to make it disappear - it puts everyone in danger," he says, "rather than just allowing us to selectively target those we oppose. But that's not the same thing as trying to avoid the mutant issue, make it go away... It seems to me that we need to create some public perception where there are 'good' mutants - those who get with the program - and then everyone else."
Bahir's eyes lift to track Sal in her passage. For all that he might not like her very much, he still gives her a very tight sort of smile. << Maybe the dampener affects his hearing, >> he suggests to her, tone dead dry.
Sal's smile for Bahir is equally tight, as is the thought that she lets surface rather pointedly. << And his eyes? >> she asks him as she eases back again, flicking her fingers toward Bahir, herself, and now displaced, Percy.
Emma shifts and settles back in a public display of disgruntlement. "Lowe's initiatives /were/ registration. Voluntary, then involuntary. Adel," she calls out. "You were saying something earlier about your hand and Richard's ass?" Cue a sweet smile and secretly shared warm laughter.
"And gloves, sweet Queen," Adel reminds. "We can decide what to do later; first we need to get control on the situation, and to do so, we need to take control of Richard's. You, my brother or I -- we are best suited to this, I think."
"I am well in favor of backtracking on registration," Shaw says. "It was stupid to begin with, and it does us not a whit of good - but a war against Magneto and those mutantkind who won't collaborate?" he says. "I think that does us a great deal of good. Lensherr threatens the Club on a regular basis, and Xavier's brood have always been... unfortunate." A pause. "At least one of them I'd like to see rot in some detainee camp for her pride - and another, I think, it would be safer to just shoot, given her knowledge of our affairs and her power." He smiles at Emma as she leans away, and then he looks to Adel. "No one wants the specter of some pogrom reaching us - but Magneto can be made into a villain, and his villainy can turn into profit for us."
"Magneto is already a villain," Percy growls from amidst the pawns. "No one is /talking/ about protecting the Brotherhood."
Shaw crows. "No one's talking about dropping bombs on them, either," he says. "But guess what I have - I have," the Black King preens, "the location of Magneto's base. I propose we give it to the administration."
"And what do we do when they question your acquisition of that knowledge, Shaw?" The Black Rook asks quietly.
"Smile blankly," the White Bishop answers, rolling his eyes. "They didn't exactly tell us."
"Pass it through a second party," the Black Bishop says, less quick to dismiss Sal's words. "So that they don't wonder how Shaw knows."
Emma's brow crinkles in thought. << I do not want this Mansion to become the target of yet another one of Erik's temper tantrums, >> she muses to her Bishop.
<< And? Why should it? Bahir pulled the information from the mind of one of Magneto's little friends -- he certainly has a lot of them, >> Adel adds, pausing for wistful jealously for all those hot women wasted, just /wasted/, on the old man. << Magneto didn't know he was there. They've no reason to suspect that Shaw knows. Shaw tells a friend who tells a friend who tells a friend -- and the Feds bomb the place. Our hands are clean, on all counts. >>
"We can," Shaw says with a nod to Bahir. "Some FBI analyst can just think of it one day - 'oh, what's that spot on the satellite photos' - and there it is," he says. "Voile."
"So. We had Richards Erik on a silver platter?" Emma asks generally. "We giftwrap his terrorists?"
"And we figure out what to do from there?" Adel answers, likewise general.
"The easiest way to make registration go away is to give them something to focus on," Shaw replies. "A public assault on the man's base provides a sense of progress, and means that when we quietly move to destroy the MRA people don't feel like that act threatens their security - because they can see Marines and bombs in upstate New York keeping them safe."
"Because bombs in upstate New York is so much safer," Emma retorts dryly. "Adel, I think I had better stay as far away from the administration as possible until you determine how much Richards knows of my involvement with Roger. Establish contacts among those he trusts, and if the opportunity presents itself, pass along whatever helpful hints you deem appropriate. I suppose," Emma turns to Shaw and smiles with poisoned sweetness, "you could send someone along too if you wish."
"It'll be like a sitcom," Shaw replies. "Brother and brother. Bahir, while you're there, arrange the leak."
Adel dips his head, and smiles; Bahir inclines his, lips thinning. Either way, Bishops agree to assignments with little said.
In her place, Black's Rook folds her arms and settles back uneasily.
Emma uncurls from her chair and stands, steepling her fingers on the tabletop. "Very well. We look forward to your reports, and will not detain you any longer. The meeting is adjourned."
=NYC= Hidden Meeting Chambers - Lower Levels - Hellfire Clubhouse
This old basement has seen more activity in the last eighteen or so hours than it has all the months since... well, probably since Emma's shooting combined. The watchpost is a flurry of activity and a table has been put in the cell and used to spread out timelines and graphs and all sorts of paperwork. But here, in the quiet of the Meeting Room, where power shifts and changes hands like a dirty dollar bill, the tranquilty has not been breached, save by the White Queen, seated in her chair and deep in conversation with the White Bishop who lounges (Are you proud, Percy?) on the table in front of her.
Lounge he does: Adel laughs at something, all a graceful slouch, with no sign in the liquid twine of posture of Magneto-dealt crippling. He is immune to the fuss and flutter outside this room's doors; all of his attention is on the woman before him, his Queen.
Adel does not lounge. In contrast to his brother's liquid grace, he is stiff and irritable; the tension that sparks off him does not take an empath to sense, nor a pheromonists nose. It is the snap of word and gaze, and in the sharp gestures of his hand as he dismisses a pawn to send back on some truly meaningless task. He stalks into the room with little grace, entering before his King.
Bahir does not lounge. In contrast to his brother's liquid grace, he is stiff and irritable; the tension that sparks off him does not take an empath to sense, nor a pheromonists nose. It is the snap of word and gaze, and in the sharp gestures of his hand as he dismisses a pawn to send back on some truly meaningless task. He stalks into the room with little grace, entering before his King.
Percy slithers in, a sidling slouch to movement and posture; his hands are shrugged deep into the pockets of his suit-jacket. He is all pale grey and periwinkle, still dressed from the workday. In the inner sanctum of the Inner Circle, he is one face among many, the spotlight yielded to others; as an observer, he finds his place -- a new and different one, unexpected as a pinball's trajectory -- and goes there.
It is Shaw who enters, then - black suit, black shirt, black tie with a golden tack that makes a little crown upon his breast. Pawns flank him, and his smile gleams with dark humor as his thoughts remain behind some silvery cloud whose source is indicated at the gleam of metal by his ear. "My queen," he remarks with a light tone. "I do hope you'll forgive my tardiness - that you haven't longed too much."
In Shaw's wake, less anonymous than the pawns -- his guard, his Rook. Her face is composed, her thoughts less so; without Shaw's advantage, it's up to mental excercise and natural shielding to keep her thoughts hidden. In a room of three telepaths, hers is the distinct disadvantage. Despite this, she is still elegant in cinnamon and soft grey as she takes her place.
Irritation seeps afresh at Shaw's entrance, and she arches a brow at Adel, rolling her eyes and sharing a brief, but clear, disdain before turning a small smile up to the Black King's face and waving an indolently possessive hand at the throne next to hers. "Not at all, darling. But if you don't mind? We do have business to discuss."
Disdain is met with a smile and Adel slides his hand over Emma's shoulder as he scoots off the table to turn and stand at her side. If he leans against her in wanton, kept-boy fashion -- well, it's all for Adel's sake, and he glitters with bright and brittle assholishness.
Bahir does not glitter; he sits. It is as simple as that, and as silent.
Hands still in his pockets, Percy leans back on one heel and waits.
"Mmm, yes," Shaw replies, sauntering towards Emma. "Business." He pauses in front of her, reaching out to briefly pat a cheek before he plops into his own seat. "Someone bring wine?" he asks, and then holds out his hand as a Black Pawn fills it with a glass. "Please, please," he says diffidently. "Come everyone - take up a glass." Trusted pawns move, goblets of some rich red on trays as Shaw raises his glass to the room. "Blood," he says. "Blood, dead presidents, and God Save the Queen."
Sal's eyes move from her King to the rest of the Court, then back again. She declines a pawn's offer of a glass with a quiet gesture, hand moving in concert with the briefest shake of her head.
Emma's sits untouched in front of her, and she keeps a coolly bemused expression on her face as she watches his show of dramatics, with her hand curled under her chin for support. Around the room, others raise their glass (or don't) as they are so inclined, and Emma waits for their 'hear, hears' to fade before straightening in her seat and lifting her voice to carry. "Lowe is dead. His vice-president is a virtual unknown and lacks the force of personality to sustain Lowe's initiatives. We need to ensure that no one else can take up that fight."
Adel does not take the wine, as if for some peculiar reason he doesn't trust Shaw all telepathy-dampened and going on about blood, dead men, and God Save the Queen. He melts into his seat and turns attention to Emma. He does not go so far as to kick his feet up on the table, but it is a close thing.
Bahir starts to join the pawns and then turns 'round mid-step to go and take his seat at Shaw's side, like a good Bishop. Still, he is quiet, and fairly subdued.
Percy murmurs appropriately to the toast, because that is what you do, but he doesn't drink either. Maybe he drove!
"Some months ago," Shaw says to Emma, "I asked you to begin making preparations to bring Richards into the Club's sphere so we can control what he does - perhaps it is best to start there, then, with the status of White's efforts to do just that?" It's a small smile. "As for Lowe's reforms... why fight them?" He shrugs. "The flow of a river is a tool to be guided, not reversed, and targeting a martyr seems an awful lot of effort."
Sal is here to serve; she does not take part in the conversation beyond looking attentive.
"He's attended a few parties, had a few engagements, met a few people," Emma answers, a trifle sourly. "We have not extended the full weight of our... influence on him. Yet." The last is tacked on with added empahsis, as much a promise for the future as a defense of the past. "As for his reforms, they no longer serve /us/, that is why. There is no need to target the man. But the man's ideas need to be... stemmed." She inclines her head and gives him a narrow glance out of the corner of her eye.
And pretty.
Percy stands around looking attentive and pretty, too.
That Adel supports Emma needn't be said; it is in the sneer he gives Shaw and the slight glitter of approval he turns to Emma.
"How?" Bahir questions Shaw. He does so in a slight undertone, such that it doesn't carry farther than the Monarchs, both, but Adel picks it up easily. "Enough of this 'tool, guide, use' blah, blah. /How/? If you've no concrete way to make them serve our goals -- and what are our goals, by the way, behind the increase of your wealth? -- then they have lived past their use."
"Did I miss something?" Shaw wonders. "We're the Hellfire Club - wealth and power are our trade, and it is no surprise that we get them through the military-industrial complex. Eisenhower was no dummy." He shakes his head. "I don't see how aligning ourselves with tree-huggers - with mutant activists like our dear departed Black Queen - gets us anywhere," he says. "How does coming out in favor of tolerance put more Congressmen in our pocket? How does it fatten those pockets - or am I missing some goal? Did we have a vote on becoming philanthropists when I was asleep?"
"To what purpose?" It is a final bubble of determination, bursting over Bahir's expression to leave exasperation and wearingness in its wake; then he subsides -- physically, as well, slinking back low in a slouch.
Percy clenches his teeth and glares at a totally inoffensive patch of floor. As he is no longer anybody's Bishop, it's no longer politic to snarl at the Black King; remembering the humility of his station is a necessary chore. /His/ slouch is gone; he has stiffened straight, his hands still pocketed but curled into fists.
Attentiveness -- pretty attentiveness, at that -- turns to keen interest at Bahir's final words. Sal shifts forward even as he subsides, though her attention is drawn to the other side of the court. Eyebrows raise, and there is the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips as her gaze settles on Percy. Then it is gone, and she turns back to Shaw, focused and intent.
Emma turns in her seat, a surprised glance shot at the Black Bishop and nothing more. << Your brother does not support Sebastian's money-hunger, >> she observes silently to her own Bishop, then reaches out to draw Percy into conversation. << How much influence /does/ Bahir carry with him? >> Physically, she leans over the chair's arm, her own tucked tightly together, the folds of her cloak wrinkling in the bend of elbow. "How does money and power help us if they come to test us in our sleep? This is not about tolerance, Sebastian. This is about survival. We nearly lost our Bishops already. It is a fool who refuses to see themselves in another's vulnerabilities."
"Politely," Shaw replies, "I am of the opinion that the most successful Jew of history was Hitler, and for all the reasons you'd expect." A beat, and a vicious smile. "After all, he eliminated the competition." He gestures with his wineglass. "I acknowledge that grinding out another war against the target de jour lacks creativity, and that there is a measure of danger given our composition - and taking stricter steps to control that danger is required. The MRA, perhaps, is problematic, and we need to find a way to regain control of testing somehow - but where's the profit in advocating a gentler hand? Don't we profit more by selecting those mutants who might rival us and labeling as terrorists, as enemies of freedom and the state? After all, Harmid Karzai is a Muslim, and he seems to have done quite well for himself. Professor to President is no mean feat, even if Afghanistan is some shitpile in the mountains."
<< No. My brother is something of an idealist, >> Adel says with a flash of dark humor. << He's the good one. >> He recoils from the touch of Emma's mind when she reaches for Percy as well, leaving her to speak with Percy alone.
Percy opens his mind to the Queen's question: it does not have much in the way of actual information. << He holds Bahir as a thing of extreme value, like your dampener. As to influence I cannot speak. >> Talking to Emma, he loses the thread of what some of Shaw is saying; when he starts listening again, he bristles. << This is the damned Wide Awake idiocy all over again-->>
Bahir? He does nothing. He says nothing. He sits, and he in no /way/ sulks. Really.
"Label them terrorists and enemies of the state. But if we continue down the path we started with registration, we will lose control. After all," Emma leans closer, invading his personal space, "quite often the harder you hold on to a thing, the easier it slips away."
Sal, a space removed from Bahir, leans in close. It's across the Bishop that she speaks, her voice strong but pitched to carry to Shaw's ears. "Is there a point," she questions, "in having a Bishop when you do not /listen/?"
"Registration's dangerous," Shaw agrees. "Probably best for us to find a way to make it disappear - it puts everyone in danger," he says, "rather than just allowing us to selectively target those we oppose. But that's not the same thing as trying to avoid the mutant issue, make it go away... It seems to me that we need to create some public perception where there are 'good' mutants - those who get with the program - and then everyone else."
Bahir's eyes lift to track Sal in her passage. For all that he might not like her very much, he still gives her a very tight sort of smile. << Maybe the dampener affects his hearing, >> he suggests to her, tone dead dry.
Sal's smile for Bahir is equally tight, as is the thought that she lets surface rather pointedly. << And his eyes? >> she asks him as she eases back again, flicking her fingers toward Bahir, herself, and now displaced, Percy.
Emma shifts and settles back in a public display of disgruntlement. "Lowe's initiatives /were/ registration. Voluntary, then involuntary. Adel," she calls out. "You were saying something earlier about your hand and Richard's ass?" Cue a sweet smile and secretly shared warm laughter.
"And gloves, sweet Queen," Adel reminds. "We can decide what to do later; first we need to get control on the situation, and to do so, we need to take control of Richard's. You, my brother or I -- we are best suited to this, I think."
"I am well in favor of backtracking on registration," Shaw says. "It was stupid to begin with, and it does us not a whit of good - but a war against Magneto and those mutantkind who won't collaborate?" he says. "I think that does us a great deal of good. Lensherr threatens the Club on a regular basis, and Xavier's brood have always been... unfortunate." A pause. "At least one of them I'd like to see rot in some detainee camp for her pride - and another, I think, it would be safer to just shoot, given her knowledge of our affairs and her power." He smiles at Emma as she leans away, and then he looks to Adel. "No one wants the specter of some pogrom reaching us - but Magneto can be made into a villain, and his villainy can turn into profit for us."
"Magneto is already a villain," Percy growls from amidst the pawns. "No one is /talking/ about protecting the Brotherhood."
Shaw crows. "No one's talking about dropping bombs on them, either," he says. "But guess what I have - I have," the Black King preens, "the location of Magneto's base. I propose we give it to the administration."
"And what do we do when they question your acquisition of that knowledge, Shaw?" The Black Rook asks quietly.
"Smile blankly," the White Bishop answers, rolling his eyes. "They didn't exactly tell us."
"Pass it through a second party," the Black Bishop says, less quick to dismiss Sal's words. "So that they don't wonder how Shaw knows."
Emma's brow crinkles in thought. << I do not want this Mansion to become the target of yet another one of Erik's temper tantrums, >> she muses to her Bishop.
<< And? Why should it? Bahir pulled the information from the mind of one of Magneto's little friends -- he certainly has a lot of them, >> Adel adds, pausing for wistful jealously for all those hot women wasted, just /wasted/, on the old man. << Magneto didn't know he was there. They've no reason to suspect that Shaw knows. Shaw tells a friend who tells a friend who tells a friend -- and the Feds bomb the place. Our hands are clean, on all counts. >>
"We can," Shaw says with a nod to Bahir. "Some FBI analyst can just think of it one day - 'oh, what's that spot on the satellite photos' - and there it is," he says. "Voile."
"So. We had Richards Erik on a silver platter?" Emma asks generally. "We giftwrap his terrorists?"
"And we figure out what to do from there?" Adel answers, likewise general.
"The easiest way to make registration go away is to give them something to focus on," Shaw replies. "A public assault on the man's base provides a sense of progress, and means that when we quietly move to destroy the MRA people don't feel like that act threatens their security - because they can see Marines and bombs in upstate New York keeping them safe."
"Because bombs in upstate New York is so much safer," Emma retorts dryly. "Adel, I think I had better stay as far away from the administration as possible until you determine how much Richards knows of my involvement with Roger. Establish contacts among those he trusts, and if the opportunity presents itself, pass along whatever helpful hints you deem appropriate. I suppose," Emma turns to Shaw and smiles with poisoned sweetness, "you could send someone along too if you wish."
"It'll be like a sitcom," Shaw replies. "Brother and brother. Bahir, while you're there, arrange the leak."
Adel dips his head, and smiles; Bahir inclines his, lips thinning. Either way, Bishops agree to assignments with little said.
In her place, Black's Rook folds her arms and settles back uneasily.
Emma uncurls from her chair and stands, steepling her fingers on the tabletop. "Very well. We look forward to your reports, and will not detain you any longer. The meeting is adjourned."