Miles to go
So much to catch up on. Probably startled Johnson out of five years of his life by insisting on seeing the security logs for myself. Too damned bad, Black Pawn. Besides, spot inspections never killed anyone.
And once I'd chased him away for some peace and quiet, who swoops in to interrupt it? Ah, well. Her timing wasn't the best, but we did need to talk. Which we did. (So much to catch up on . . . Damn these pawns!)
Now we need to act. I need to act.
Bahir tonight. Harper tomorrow. This Dorian - soon.
5/23/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Watchpost
Security maintains patient observation in this high-tech nook. Banks of monitors and controls supervise the whole of the upper clubhouse as well as the hidden rooms in the basement. A door allows easy (if guarded) access to the Inner Circle's private meeting room; another door, even more heavily guarded, leads down to a holding cell. A one-way window peers into that room as well.
--
No one's movements are entirely private in a place as well monitored as the Hellfire Clubhouse. And so it's with purpose in mind that Emma heads down into the bowels of the mansion, stepping out of the elevator and twisting her hair up and around into a clip. "Sebastian?" she calls out, pausing a few feet into the main room, listening for an answer.
A moment of silence, rich with stale, closed-in smell and the muffling of brick and earth all 'round. Through the watchpost's half-open, unguarded door, Shaw's voice answers, "Here," and his mind coasts a fainter blur of thought/emotion/concentration spreading out in fuzzy ripples.
Emma turns on rubber-soled feet and heads toward the smaller room, casting her own perception out before her, concentric rings overlapping and interacting with his output. Her hands fall to her side and she pokes her head through the door. "Welcome back, darling. Did you have an eventful trip?" Her expression reads bemused assurance that she doubts it could have match what happened /here/ in his absence.
Shaw gives that expression a jaundiced eye over his shoulder, then returns to studying the security logs open in a fat black binder on the console in front of him. In navy dress shirt and brown slacks, and that expanding and contracting concentration, he's neither business fish nor casual fowl at the moment; but he tries to haul in the mental backwash, at least, while running a finger down another page of logged entries. "No, it was fairly routine," he answers to her assurance. "The Tokyo Circle sends their regards. A case of good rice wine, too; I had it put in the cellar with the rest if you're interested."
"Mmm. Can't stand rice wine. Far too bitter for my tastes," Emma answers, moving into the room and leaning back against a wall behind him.
"And there's enough bitterness going around this place right now for everyone, isn't there?" Shaw closes the binder and swivels to face her, his legs stretching out in an ankle cross and his hands lacing behind his head to support its falsely lazy tilt. Despite his attempt at control, thought does leak into her ringed seekings: Bahir, Magneto, Percy, Adel, Bahir, violence, blood, deathdeathdeath. His smile is tight and thin, with a stiletto's shine in the dim glow from overhead and the monitors around. "This will teach me to go out of town for any length of time, won't it?"
"I don't know. I thought I handled things fairly well for you," Emma purrs, tipping her head down to look at him, bringing her eyes out of shadows and into the glare from the monitors. "I've /always/ handled things well for you."
A flag of mingled annoyance and apology, followed by, "No, you have, and you did." Shaw grimaces; lines crinkle new valleys around eyes and mouth. "I had no doubt about that, or else I'd never leave this place at all, and you'd be right to knock me off again. You're fine, Emma. I'm just -- disappointed. In them. And in myself, somewhat, for not having prepared my court to handle things like not--" a jump in his emotions matches the black flare of his eyes "--like /not/ going after a pound of flesh from /Magneto/."
"His loyalties have been rather clarified, haven't they?" she replies, enjoying a personal image of Bahir sizzling away in the crucible of Sebastian's anger. "What do you intend to do?"
Shaw's voice flattens, tightens, falls a little deeper towards his bass register. "Cripple him. And for that, I need to ask you for a favor."
Emma blinks and tilts her head. She's listening.
Faintly, Percy's remembered voice mentally overlaps Shaw's words, although the interference fades as he continues. "I need you to block the projective side of his telepathy. That's what got him into trouble; that's what I'm taking away from him until he's earned my trust back. I don't care how you do it. Make it hurt if he tries to send out, wall it off entirely so he can't reach it -- you know better than I how it works." He pauses there, almost a hesitation (another apologetic spurt? The flashed memory of /her/ recent block--), but shakes his head, pulls his hands down to the armrests, and sits up. "Cripple him," he repeats quietly. "Until we see fit to restore him."
Emma inhales slowly, nostrils flaring, then pinching as she stares at him, turning aside hesitation and motives with a dismissive mental hand. "That's... That would appear to hamper his ability to repeat the performance," she allows, slow and low voiced. "That is also rather... invasive. He will submit to this?"
Shaw smiles, not pleasantly. "He will have a choice?"
"You would have me violate him, then," she responds in a curiously flat monotone, arms folding defensively in front of her. She lifts her brow.
"No." Shaw makes it a harsh syllable, glacially hard. "I'll tell him myself what his punishment will be, and /I/ won't give him the choice. He'll submit to me, then to you." His fingers curl around the armrests; tendons line briefly visible under his skin there -- relax as he forces himself to, still facing her, still open to her, still reasonable and rational, oh, so reasonable and rational. "I'm not asking you to rape my pawn, Emma. I'm asking you to administer the punishment that I, lacking your gifts, cannot."
The other brow joins its companion and she dips her head in a smooth and gracious nod. "Very well, Sebastian. I am yours to command." She draws her face back up, and the light catches a glitter of mischievous satisfaction in her eyes that fades a moment later. "Yours is not the only court with a wayward pawn, however."
Shaw nods. "Percy told me about Adel, and what you did to Wyngarde. Was there more to the story?"
Emma snorts and pushes off the wall in an impatient and ill-humored gesture. "Wyngarde's dealt with. I was referring to something that your little bishop wouldn't know." She stops gives him a considering look. "Though considering his continuing relationship with Sabitha, perhaps he /does/ know. I would warn him to stay away from her if I were you. She's drawn the FBIs attention to her."
Black acid etches sharp edges out of Shaw's mental presence. He grits his teeth, too, and says with deliberate, unemphasized control, "Perhaps he does. I'll ask him, and I'll warn him, thank you. What has Ms. Melcross done to attract the FBI's eyes?"
"I don't know. She insists she has not intentionally compromised herself. However, she has a history of making 'mistakes,'" Emma growls. "My people have their ear to the grape vine now, hoping to uncover more information about her case."
"Shit," Shaw mutters and tips a long look to the ceiling. Behind it, his brain works in swift, compact patterns. "You can draw on my resources if it will help. In the meantime, I want to ask: Is her service to you, to the Circle, outweighing the price of these mistakes?"
"She's /mine/, Sebastian," Emma is quick to turn and lash out. "Her contributions and my obligations to her are weighable only by me." She stops and straighten, inhaling a deep breath before continuing, "Thank you for your offer though. Any information you receive would be appreciated."
Shaw holds to his icy control, though barely. "I'm aware of it. I'm also the putative leader of the Circle, which might well be compromised by an investigation of this matter. The FBI starts sniffing around Melcross, what are they going to find? Ties to you? And from you to . . . ? That affects all of us, and as far as I'm concerned, all options are on the table, for now, to deal with the problem if it gets that far."
"Don't go there, Sebastian. I will deal with my pawn as I see fit. I will not allow the Circle to be compromised. That should be sufficient for you."
"So prickly," Shaw marvels with a serpent's wicked tongue and a reassured mental grin slicing open his surface thoughts: a Queen on her mettle, proper and good! He hooks his elbows on the armrests, interlaces his fingers over his lap. "So. What exactly are they investigating her /for/?"
"Unknown. They suspect or have confirm her mutant status, and connections to Erik's group have been floated apparently. My source says the investigation is rather fresh." This Queen settles slightly under his approval.
Shaw accepts it as his due, paid to him as he just paid her, and the ritual of monarchal transactions wins again. He twiddles his thumbs a second in thought, then. "The Brotherhood. They think she might be tied to the Brotherhood?" A squashed -- but not squashed fast enough -- speculation about sacrificing pawn to terrorists, get the Feds off the trail that way.
"They wouldn't /want/ her. Do you /want/ to give Erik cause for retaliation?" Emma points out dryly then flaps her hands and turns to find something to fiddle with. "And yes. Mutant terrorist group with a history of planting mutants in political places? I suspect they are over eager to prove themselves in the wake of the capital poisonings."
Bright-eyed, Shaw allows himself the unchallenging entertainment of watching her looking for a fidget outlet, while he taps his thumbs together some more and considers his response. "Could be. The bosses always like to come up with something, anything, to cover themselves in glory after such an embarrassment. How did they find her as a target?" He tips his head, squints. "Did you interrogate her? Not invasion--" subliminally, << no, you'd never do that, never violate, not a precious pawn or anyone else >> "--but if you had the opening to peek inside her mind . . ."
Emma shoots a sharp look at him as her hands pounce on a stapler and swing it up and around with her. "I told you, I do not /know/ why they are looking into her." She pauses and clacks the stapler twice, pumping out a pair of staples. "I spoke with her," is all she says in response to his insinuation.
"I'm curious, is all," and he spreads his linked hands in mock-innocent apology. His expression is not so nice: folded into harsh, unyielding lines. "But you'll handle it as you see fit. Keep me in the loop."
Emma thumbs the catch on the bottom of the stapler and lets it fall open, only to snap it back and repeat the process. "Always, dear King. After all, I'm not the only one with /intimate/ ties to the girl."
Shaw smiles. "At least you haven't slept with her. Such a terrible weakness in my court and its members. We can't keep our hands off yours."
Emma smirks. "Well, now you have a former mine who is all yours now. He /is/ rather good. I do admit to missing him."
"And just not my type," Shaw laments ever so gently. The amusement is surface only; he remains tightly focused on the underlying currents in the conversation, which echo in replay and examination in his outer thoughts, and he returns to one of them now. "I don't want to give Magneto cause for retaliation, no, but I /am/ going to extract some retaliation of my own that might draw his attention if I'm not careful. The man who attacked Bahir al-Razi and hurt him might be one of Lensherr's associates. Still, we have a duty to play eye-for-an-eye. Can I have Adel, at least, to cover my tracks with this fellow? I'll use some anonymous thugs to batter him around, and Adel could make sure he doesn't quite remember any details."
"Certainly, but I would suggest making sure you do not plan Bahir's punishment at the same time. I'm not sure that will affect Adel. They aren't quite so intertwined anymore, but..." She trails off and beams beatifically, then shoots a staple at him.
Shaw jerks back in the chair, slapping automatically at the staple and voicing a startled hiss. "Thank you," he says heavily, sarcastically, and glowers. "For that and for the advice. Of course I won't put punishment and retribution too close together, but there's only so much I can control about the timing -- and Adel's response, for that matter." He sinks down on his elbows' hooks. Grouches and grouses. "No matter what I tell him, he'll probably flay the man's brain anyway. Revenge for his brother, and the circle goes 'round and 'round."
"I /was/ thinking more along the lines of his /effectiveness/, seeing as they are linked and feed off each other to a certain degree." She crinkles her nose at his flailing and closes the stapler up with a deliberate flourish.
"That bad?" Shaw adds a frown to his slouched discontent (damned telepaths, can never control them, slippery and suspect--). "He should be able to compartmentalize, or else they're not very useful. Give him more shielding practice or techniques."
Emma rolls her eyes and drops the stapler on the console. "It's not always as simple as that, /dear/. Though I may be borrowing trouble. They /have/ been separated a bit already."
Shaw insists, because he can, head-blind and stubborn as he is, "It should be that simple. A little education, some willpower -- you can conquer the world that way, let alone your own mind." Smugness wraps glowingly around his mind for a second: look at what /he's/ done, after all. "We'll just separate them more, somehow. Maybe it can be part of the discipline I want to instill in him, under Harper's tutelage. God knows he needs it."
"Oh. And of course, /you/ are the expert on all things mental. Why ask me for help then, Oh, powerful king? When I still have /so/ much to learn at your knee." Emma pushes away from the console and waltzes around his chair, turning around to walk backward toward the door with slow courtly steps.
The stifled impulse to kick her as she passes nevertheless jolts perceptibly through Shaw's mental front, dispelling the smugness and surety like smoke before a rush of fire. "You've made your point," he throws at her instead. "I can only make suggestions and offer insights from the other side of the telepathic divide, darling dear." The endearment bites, as it usually does, and he shows some teeth with it. "I'm an experienced victim, after all."
Emma stops her poncing and straightens, taking him in consideration turned serious. And she steps back into range to lean over the arm of the chair and balance against the far one; too, too close. "Perhaps I will suggest /Bahir/ sit at your knee for a while, my King. He /could/ stand to learn from you."
"That would be," Shaw says, refusing to lean back, lean away, or lean into, for that matter (but his emotions know she's so close, and so does his body), "immensely considerate. What did I ever do to deserve such a splendid helpmeet as you?"
Emma will do the leaning! But only enough to brush a kiss across his forehead en passing to regaining her full height. "You sprung her from an insane asylum," she answers, turning away.
Shaw softens in tense mood and tense expression, just for a second. (Memories trying to come forward, what happened after that springing--) "So I did." He turns away, too, however, swivelling back to the console and the binder. Mind shuts down, locks back into concentration. "I'll see Bahir tonight. You can deal with him after that at your leisure."
"Yes, my king." There is mockery, yes, in the expression, but only traces of it to color answering softness as she drifts out of the room.
[Log ends.]
And once I'd chased him away for some peace and quiet, who swoops in to interrupt it? Ah, well. Her timing wasn't the best, but we did need to talk. Which we did. (So much to catch up on . . . Damn these pawns!)
Now we need to act. I need to act.
Bahir tonight. Harper tomorrow. This Dorian - soon.
5/23/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Watchpost
Security maintains patient observation in this high-tech nook. Banks of monitors and controls supervise the whole of the upper clubhouse as well as the hidden rooms in the basement. A door allows easy (if guarded) access to the Inner Circle's private meeting room; another door, even more heavily guarded, leads down to a holding cell. A one-way window peers into that room as well.
--
No one's movements are entirely private in a place as well monitored as the Hellfire Clubhouse. And so it's with purpose in mind that Emma heads down into the bowels of the mansion, stepping out of the elevator and twisting her hair up and around into a clip. "Sebastian?" she calls out, pausing a few feet into the main room, listening for an answer.
A moment of silence, rich with stale, closed-in smell and the muffling of brick and earth all 'round. Through the watchpost's half-open, unguarded door, Shaw's voice answers, "Here," and his mind coasts a fainter blur of thought/emotion/concentration spreading out in fuzzy ripples.
Emma turns on rubber-soled feet and heads toward the smaller room, casting her own perception out before her, concentric rings overlapping and interacting with his output. Her hands fall to her side and she pokes her head through the door. "Welcome back, darling. Did you have an eventful trip?" Her expression reads bemused assurance that she doubts it could have match what happened /here/ in his absence.
Shaw gives that expression a jaundiced eye over his shoulder, then returns to studying the security logs open in a fat black binder on the console in front of him. In navy dress shirt and brown slacks, and that expanding and contracting concentration, he's neither business fish nor casual fowl at the moment; but he tries to haul in the mental backwash, at least, while running a finger down another page of logged entries. "No, it was fairly routine," he answers to her assurance. "The Tokyo Circle sends their regards. A case of good rice wine, too; I had it put in the cellar with the rest if you're interested."
"Mmm. Can't stand rice wine. Far too bitter for my tastes," Emma answers, moving into the room and leaning back against a wall behind him.
"And there's enough bitterness going around this place right now for everyone, isn't there?" Shaw closes the binder and swivels to face her, his legs stretching out in an ankle cross and his hands lacing behind his head to support its falsely lazy tilt. Despite his attempt at control, thought does leak into her ringed seekings: Bahir, Magneto, Percy, Adel, Bahir, violence, blood, deathdeathdeath. His smile is tight and thin, with a stiletto's shine in the dim glow from overhead and the monitors around. "This will teach me to go out of town for any length of time, won't it?"
"I don't know. I thought I handled things fairly well for you," Emma purrs, tipping her head down to look at him, bringing her eyes out of shadows and into the glare from the monitors. "I've /always/ handled things well for you."
A flag of mingled annoyance and apology, followed by, "No, you have, and you did." Shaw grimaces; lines crinkle new valleys around eyes and mouth. "I had no doubt about that, or else I'd never leave this place at all, and you'd be right to knock me off again. You're fine, Emma. I'm just -- disappointed. In them. And in myself, somewhat, for not having prepared my court to handle things like not--" a jump in his emotions matches the black flare of his eyes "--like /not/ going after a pound of flesh from /Magneto/."
"His loyalties have been rather clarified, haven't they?" she replies, enjoying a personal image of Bahir sizzling away in the crucible of Sebastian's anger. "What do you intend to do?"
Shaw's voice flattens, tightens, falls a little deeper towards his bass register. "Cripple him. And for that, I need to ask you for a favor."
Emma blinks and tilts her head. She's listening.
Faintly, Percy's remembered voice mentally overlaps Shaw's words, although the interference fades as he continues. "I need you to block the projective side of his telepathy. That's what got him into trouble; that's what I'm taking away from him until he's earned my trust back. I don't care how you do it. Make it hurt if he tries to send out, wall it off entirely so he can't reach it -- you know better than I how it works." He pauses there, almost a hesitation (another apologetic spurt? The flashed memory of /her/ recent block--), but shakes his head, pulls his hands down to the armrests, and sits up. "Cripple him," he repeats quietly. "Until we see fit to restore him."
Emma inhales slowly, nostrils flaring, then pinching as she stares at him, turning aside hesitation and motives with a dismissive mental hand. "That's... That would appear to hamper his ability to repeat the performance," she allows, slow and low voiced. "That is also rather... invasive. He will submit to this?"
Shaw smiles, not pleasantly. "He will have a choice?"
"You would have me violate him, then," she responds in a curiously flat monotone, arms folding defensively in front of her. She lifts her brow.
"No." Shaw makes it a harsh syllable, glacially hard. "I'll tell him myself what his punishment will be, and /I/ won't give him the choice. He'll submit to me, then to you." His fingers curl around the armrests; tendons line briefly visible under his skin there -- relax as he forces himself to, still facing her, still open to her, still reasonable and rational, oh, so reasonable and rational. "I'm not asking you to rape my pawn, Emma. I'm asking you to administer the punishment that I, lacking your gifts, cannot."
The other brow joins its companion and she dips her head in a smooth and gracious nod. "Very well, Sebastian. I am yours to command." She draws her face back up, and the light catches a glitter of mischievous satisfaction in her eyes that fades a moment later. "Yours is not the only court with a wayward pawn, however."
Shaw nods. "Percy told me about Adel, and what you did to Wyngarde. Was there more to the story?"
Emma snorts and pushes off the wall in an impatient and ill-humored gesture. "Wyngarde's dealt with. I was referring to something that your little bishop wouldn't know." She stops gives him a considering look. "Though considering his continuing relationship with Sabitha, perhaps he /does/ know. I would warn him to stay away from her if I were you. She's drawn the FBIs attention to her."
Black acid etches sharp edges out of Shaw's mental presence. He grits his teeth, too, and says with deliberate, unemphasized control, "Perhaps he does. I'll ask him, and I'll warn him, thank you. What has Ms. Melcross done to attract the FBI's eyes?"
"I don't know. She insists she has not intentionally compromised herself. However, she has a history of making 'mistakes,'" Emma growls. "My people have their ear to the grape vine now, hoping to uncover more information about her case."
"Shit," Shaw mutters and tips a long look to the ceiling. Behind it, his brain works in swift, compact patterns. "You can draw on my resources if it will help. In the meantime, I want to ask: Is her service to you, to the Circle, outweighing the price of these mistakes?"
"She's /mine/, Sebastian," Emma is quick to turn and lash out. "Her contributions and my obligations to her are weighable only by me." She stops and straighten, inhaling a deep breath before continuing, "Thank you for your offer though. Any information you receive would be appreciated."
Shaw holds to his icy control, though barely. "I'm aware of it. I'm also the putative leader of the Circle, which might well be compromised by an investigation of this matter. The FBI starts sniffing around Melcross, what are they going to find? Ties to you? And from you to . . . ? That affects all of us, and as far as I'm concerned, all options are on the table, for now, to deal with the problem if it gets that far."
"Don't go there, Sebastian. I will deal with my pawn as I see fit. I will not allow the Circle to be compromised. That should be sufficient for you."
"So prickly," Shaw marvels with a serpent's wicked tongue and a reassured mental grin slicing open his surface thoughts: a Queen on her mettle, proper and good! He hooks his elbows on the armrests, interlaces his fingers over his lap. "So. What exactly are they investigating her /for/?"
"Unknown. They suspect or have confirm her mutant status, and connections to Erik's group have been floated apparently. My source says the investigation is rather fresh." This Queen settles slightly under his approval.
Shaw accepts it as his due, paid to him as he just paid her, and the ritual of monarchal transactions wins again. He twiddles his thumbs a second in thought, then. "The Brotherhood. They think she might be tied to the Brotherhood?" A squashed -- but not squashed fast enough -- speculation about sacrificing pawn to terrorists, get the Feds off the trail that way.
"They wouldn't /want/ her. Do you /want/ to give Erik cause for retaliation?" Emma points out dryly then flaps her hands and turns to find something to fiddle with. "And yes. Mutant terrorist group with a history of planting mutants in political places? I suspect they are over eager to prove themselves in the wake of the capital poisonings."
Bright-eyed, Shaw allows himself the unchallenging entertainment of watching her looking for a fidget outlet, while he taps his thumbs together some more and considers his response. "Could be. The bosses always like to come up with something, anything, to cover themselves in glory after such an embarrassment. How did they find her as a target?" He tips his head, squints. "Did you interrogate her? Not invasion--" subliminally, << no, you'd never do that, never violate, not a precious pawn or anyone else >> "--but if you had the opening to peek inside her mind . . ."
Emma shoots a sharp look at him as her hands pounce on a stapler and swing it up and around with her. "I told you, I do not /know/ why they are looking into her." She pauses and clacks the stapler twice, pumping out a pair of staples. "I spoke with her," is all she says in response to his insinuation.
"I'm curious, is all," and he spreads his linked hands in mock-innocent apology. His expression is not so nice: folded into harsh, unyielding lines. "But you'll handle it as you see fit. Keep me in the loop."
Emma thumbs the catch on the bottom of the stapler and lets it fall open, only to snap it back and repeat the process. "Always, dear King. After all, I'm not the only one with /intimate/ ties to the girl."
Shaw smiles. "At least you haven't slept with her. Such a terrible weakness in my court and its members. We can't keep our hands off yours."
Emma smirks. "Well, now you have a former mine who is all yours now. He /is/ rather good. I do admit to missing him."
"And just not my type," Shaw laments ever so gently. The amusement is surface only; he remains tightly focused on the underlying currents in the conversation, which echo in replay and examination in his outer thoughts, and he returns to one of them now. "I don't want to give Magneto cause for retaliation, no, but I /am/ going to extract some retaliation of my own that might draw his attention if I'm not careful. The man who attacked Bahir al-Razi and hurt him might be one of Lensherr's associates. Still, we have a duty to play eye-for-an-eye. Can I have Adel, at least, to cover my tracks with this fellow? I'll use some anonymous thugs to batter him around, and Adel could make sure he doesn't quite remember any details."
"Certainly, but I would suggest making sure you do not plan Bahir's punishment at the same time. I'm not sure that will affect Adel. They aren't quite so intertwined anymore, but..." She trails off and beams beatifically, then shoots a staple at him.
Shaw jerks back in the chair, slapping automatically at the staple and voicing a startled hiss. "Thank you," he says heavily, sarcastically, and glowers. "For that and for the advice. Of course I won't put punishment and retribution too close together, but there's only so much I can control about the timing -- and Adel's response, for that matter." He sinks down on his elbows' hooks. Grouches and grouses. "No matter what I tell him, he'll probably flay the man's brain anyway. Revenge for his brother, and the circle goes 'round and 'round."
"I /was/ thinking more along the lines of his /effectiveness/, seeing as they are linked and feed off each other to a certain degree." She crinkles her nose at his flailing and closes the stapler up with a deliberate flourish.
"That bad?" Shaw adds a frown to his slouched discontent (damned telepaths, can never control them, slippery and suspect--). "He should be able to compartmentalize, or else they're not very useful. Give him more shielding practice or techniques."
Emma rolls her eyes and drops the stapler on the console. "It's not always as simple as that, /dear/. Though I may be borrowing trouble. They /have/ been separated a bit already."
Shaw insists, because he can, head-blind and stubborn as he is, "It should be that simple. A little education, some willpower -- you can conquer the world that way, let alone your own mind." Smugness wraps glowingly around his mind for a second: look at what /he's/ done, after all. "We'll just separate them more, somehow. Maybe it can be part of the discipline I want to instill in him, under Harper's tutelage. God knows he needs it."
"Oh. And of course, /you/ are the expert on all things mental. Why ask me for help then, Oh, powerful king? When I still have /so/ much to learn at your knee." Emma pushes away from the console and waltzes around his chair, turning around to walk backward toward the door with slow courtly steps.
The stifled impulse to kick her as she passes nevertheless jolts perceptibly through Shaw's mental front, dispelling the smugness and surety like smoke before a rush of fire. "You've made your point," he throws at her instead. "I can only make suggestions and offer insights from the other side of the telepathic divide, darling dear." The endearment bites, as it usually does, and he shows some teeth with it. "I'm an experienced victim, after all."
Emma stops her poncing and straightens, taking him in consideration turned serious. And she steps back into range to lean over the arm of the chair and balance against the far one; too, too close. "Perhaps I will suggest /Bahir/ sit at your knee for a while, my King. He /could/ stand to learn from you."
"That would be," Shaw says, refusing to lean back, lean away, or lean into, for that matter (but his emotions know she's so close, and so does his body), "immensely considerate. What did I ever do to deserve such a splendid helpmeet as you?"
Emma will do the leaning! But only enough to brush a kiss across his forehead en passing to regaining her full height. "You sprung her from an insane asylum," she answers, turning away.
Shaw softens in tense mood and tense expression, just for a second. (Memories trying to come forward, what happened after that springing--) "So I did." He turns away, too, however, swivelling back to the console and the binder. Mind shuts down, locks back into concentration. "I'll see Bahir tonight. You can deal with him after that at your leisure."
"Yes, my king." There is mockery, yes, in the expression, but only traces of it to color answering softness as she drifts out of the room.
[Log ends.]