Back in the Game
Private notes.
I'm still not convinced this wasn't some attempt to clear out the white court so he could start over again After all this time lying low, though, I still have no evidence that Shaw had anything to do with the Sabitha incident, for all that his bluster afterwards reeked of show.
Whether he intended for her to survive or not, though, is pointless, now. White is weak. She needs a rook. And a king. Whether or not she admits it to herself.
=NYC= Apt 510 |Travis| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Most apartment complexes have back doors, at least if you know your way around locks. And back stairways. These are the methods Travis uses to access his hallway. The hallway itself is quickly traversed and the apartment door open and shut, allowing its tenant access without human contact. Pay no attention to the man behind Apt 510. Inside, he makes his way around the space each action already planned in advance. He's not staying long, so it would seem.
Indeed, so it would seem. However, most apartment complexes have thin walls. And the neighbour in apartment 520 has plans for the man behind Apt 510. Still keyed up, fending off the worried attentions of her butler-penguin, and still smelling strongly of cordite, a wild-eyed Ismena escapes from her apartment and makes the short trip over to Travis' door. Uncharacteristically, she knocks, and winces involuntarily as raising her arm to do so rips at the cauterized flesh on each bicep, freshening runnels of blood to further streak bared arms.
Travis freezes, cursing softly. He makes his way across the room, dropping clothes on the couch as he passes by. His shoulders relax, though, seeing the visitor, and he pulls open the door, motioning her inside.
Ismena drifts in, expression alternating between the poles of absent and in pain, with occasional stops at the equator of unholy delight. "Chinatown has fallen into chaos," she reports, tone as cool and precise as always, despite the fact that sleekly-arrayed hair is loose in a staticky cloud about her face. "I have need of a first aid kit."
Travis is busy closing the door behind her, and only with that accomplished does he notice her condition. "Shit. Ismena, what the hell happened?" He motions her to sit while he makes his way to the kitchen, where sounds of rummaging can be heard from the cabinets. He returns a moment later with a standard blue & white kit.
By the time Travis returns, Ismena has shrugged off the remains of her knit shawl, and folded it neatly on her lap. Movements precise, she folds hands still well-dusted with gunshot residue in her lap and sits still and tall, shoulders back. Arms bared by a shoulder-tie blouse, flawless olive skin fails at charred edges around an odd pair of burns. Slashes, they appear most like, if knives ever consisted of glowing plasma before this brave new day. "There was a riot," she explains, with the air of one repeating themselves. "In Chinatown. I happened to be in a position to assist..."
"I hadn't heard. I've been...away," Travis comments, setting the kit on the coffee table and pulling back the lid. The contents are certainly not the originals, nor are the hands that sift through them inexperienced. "Hydrogen peroxide? No...neosporin? What /are/ those?"
"I shot a man," Ismena provides, perhaps unhelpfully. "He was inclined to shoot back. Being a mutant, he came permanently armed."
"Tit for tat, hmm?" Travis passes her the tube of antibacterial gel. "I hope you hit him, at least," he says, fishing through for gauze with the hand that's not extended her way.
"Yes." Ismena seems quite content with this Pyrrhic victory, inclining her head with an absent, ophidian little smile. "Also others. But he was the one to rush up to me. He seemed terribly surprised to see a -woman-. Shall I hold out my arm for you?"
"That would make it easier," Travis nods, uncapping the bottle and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingertips. The gauze is set aside as he first works the gel over the cuts and burns, working in silence. "There are times when fast-acting abilities would be desireable," he finally says, replacing the cap. "That seem okay?"
The first arm lifts, offered with unconscious grace that falters in the middle as the muscles twinge again, and the small, drying streaks of blood start to life once more. Ismena does not swear, but she does hiss slightly, and catch her lower lip between her teeth, shoulders gone rigid. They don't ease as the antibacterial gel stings and burns and does its duty. "It is what needs to be done. But we really must take an evening to see what entertainment can be found. Riots are so tediously unpredictable -- this one could end far too soon."
Travis tosses the tube aside, reaching for the gauze and unwinding it. "Tell me if it's too tight," he instructs as he begins to wind it into place. "Life has been far too...quiet lately. A riot could be just the thing."
"Of course." Ismena makes no further move to flinch, however, although another hiss escapes as gauze touches burn-scored flesh. "And I feel that there has been somewhat of a boiling point reached. Mutant/human tension is right on the edge. A touch, here or there... it could be entertaining watching."
"Precious little entertainment lately," Travis says, a touch too bitterly as he ties off the bandage, eyeing it closely. "Tight enough?"
"It will do well." Tipping her head to get a look at the bandage for herself, Ismena nods slightly, and then presents Travis with the other arm. This one scored more deeply, there's a noticeable gouge taken cleanly from the muscle, front to back, enough to promise a markedly ugly scar. "And there is a large amount of bitterness in your voice, my neighbour and friend. You have been absent, lately. Running?"
"That one...I'm not sure gauze can handle," Travis says, giving an exaggerated examination of the wound while he forms an answer. "I'll wrap it for now, but you should find someplace...quiet...to have it looked at." He carefully begins to wrap it, more loosely than the other. "Running. Of a sort. Sabitha's dead," he adds after a moment. "I shot her. And thought it beneficial to vanish for a time."
"Quiet..." Ismena turns a blank blink upon Travis, before her eyes sharpen and focus, interest caught by the story. "It seems we have the both of us been shooting at things lately. Is she dead?"
"Very."
"Is her fireman our neighbour inclined towards vengeance?"
"There are...benefits of knowing the right people," Travis finally decides on the right words. "Sabitha died in a fired. You may have heard of it. Quite a tragedy." Pause. "I'm not entirely convinced she was sane. Moreso than normal for her, at least."
"Sanity can sometimes be more of a hindrance to true accomplishment than many would imagine." Ismena Diatrephes, Masters student in psychology, seems unaware of the irony of her musings. She prods gently at the looser of the two bandages, and then drapes her shawl, complete with matching hot knife holes in it, back around her shoulders as mild shock sets her to shaking. "So if the matter is covered suitably, you have no reason to lie low now, months, I presume, after the event. What is to be gained?"
"I wasn't hiding from the authorities," Travis says, drawing the words out slowly.
"Ah," Ismena nods slightly. "The right people are not entirely right."
"You likely don't understand how right you are," Travis says wryly, snapping the kit back shut before taking a seat on the couch. "I'd not expected company tonight, but I have to say I was pleasantly wrong."
Cheeks pale beneath an olive base tone, Ismena nevertheless awards Travis a smile as pleasant as any of hers ever get. Sometimes, it seems, pythons (Or is it Pythians?) can be pleased. "Then I shall naturally have to grace you with more of it. There is a city spread out at our feet that is ripe to be plucked."
"Ours for the taking," Travis says, a smile ever so slowly creeping into his much out-of-practice face. "Glass of wine?" he offers, "I believe in many traditions it is thought to help restore blood loss."
"I have also heard that it is dangerous. However," Ismena sits up, and twitches her shawl ends. "I would like wine."
Travis is off, returning moments later with two long-stemmed glasses full of red liquid. He passes one to her, before settling back down. "I fully expect any moment someone to barge through the door," he says cooly. "But you've restored my courage. So we drink wine. If I had food to offer, I would, so I apologize for that breech of hospitality."
"If you are that concerned, we can retire next door," suggests Ismena, threading her wineglass through her fingers with exaggerated grace that covers her continued trembling. "I recall that Jeeves left Ms. Frost's people rather baffled. No doubt he would do the same again."
"To others' men."
"I was careful," Travis shrugs, the look of one more than ready to life recklessly again. "Let them come, if they will. Hardly worth spoiling a good merlot."
"Then, to Chaos," Ismena proposes and toasts, her wineglass lifted and angled towards him.
"To Chaos multiplied," Travis lifts his glass her way before sipping. "It seems our way has been prepared, even without our knowledge."
"The will of the gods is inscrutable... but sometimes so very delicious," Ismena agrees, touching her glass to his before joining him in the first sip of wine. Potent on the heels of trauma and the low grade, persistant shock from it, she flutters her eyes closed for a moment at the strength behind the wine. On opening them, she sets about trying to set her hair to rights. "I suppose I should see about ridding myself of cordite. While I rather doubt that CSI is an accurate representation of police efficiency, my gun was lost in the crowds." A pause, and a slight moue of her lips. "I rather liked that gun."
"Yes, but there are so many more.../sophisticated/ weapons at our disposal," Travis encourages. "Ones I've been using sparingly of late, for obvious reasons."
"It was a very pretty gun. But yes... yes there are," Ismena is easily encouraged, the ophidian smile making a brief appearance before she reaches thirstily for more wine, and the spreading warmth that follows the drinking of it. "And now is the perfect time to toy with them. The people are so close to the edge."
"Working in concert..." Travis trails off. "At our fingertips."
"Yes. Tomorrow you'll take me to one of those 'quiet' clinics you suggested," Ismena sketches out a plan with a ginger, regal lift of one much-abused arm. "I imagine they'll be rather full of overexcited individuals."
"We'll find one. With all the excitement, you'll not even get a second glance, I'm sure." Travis comments. "So to us, as instruments of chaos."
"Hear, hear," Ismena pronounces. And then things fall to drinking, and to plotting, and to speculations that ought to leave New York City decidedly uncomfortable.
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
A dark, cold, dreary day had bled into a less dark evening as power was once again restored to the Island, and people once again made their way to familiar, companionable spots. Or whatever facsimiles they had. Now, as the evening winds down and talk of business and opportunities the crisis might herald (for crisis' always profit someone), Emma climbs the stairs to the upper floors and her chambers, a glass of wine in one hand, and a plate of cold chicken in her other. A pawn sweeps the door open ahead of her.
The armchair is already occupied, though that point would be obvious to the searching mind. As the door opens, Travis snaps closed the book in his lap, looking up as she enters. He's more cleaned up than of recent days, though a few days of beard growth are the exception to his usual appearance. "Good evening, Emma."
Emma had caught the quiet whisper of her Knight's mind as she entered the hallway, and so there is no surprise on her face when she enters, though the pawn looks a little discomfited. Emma nods the door shut and crosses to her desk to drop plate and glass off before moving toward the interior compartment. "Travis. So kind of you to finally make an appearance," she replies acerbically. The lights of her bedroom spring to life, and she sighs as she disappears inside. "At least the power has returned."
Travis sets the book on the arm of the chair before standing. He crosses the room, stopping on the other side of the door. "You are looking well. As is this place," he adds, gaze sweeping around the room.
Emma stops before heading into the closet to look around as well. "Yes. They did a tolerable job in rebuilding." Another light flicks on and she pulls a drawer open to retrieve more comfortable clothing than the cocktail dress and heels she is currently sporting. The footwear are abandoned in the floor behind her, and she throws her change of clothes on the bed as she approaches it. "What has stirred you out of hiding? Finally get tired of no running water and peanut butter and crackers?"
"Life on the streets keeps your wits sharp," Travis shrugs. "I highly recommend an occasional jaunt...for most people." He leans against the doorframe, watching her movements. "Recent events, though, to answer your question. And having having proceeded as far as was...efficient while solo."
"And now efficiency has brought you back into the fold?" Emma purrs, passing up the clothing on the bed to approach him. She stops in front of him and tips her head back, gold waves tickling between bared shoulders. "So. What do you recommend for me?" A pause, and then she looks down, then up with a lifted brow before turning around and lifting her hair. "Get the zipper for me, darling?"
"I tend to think of it as completing my sortie, rather than straying," Travis comments as he obliges, moving the metal clasp down its track. "And I hardly think you need /my/ recommendations. Things here seem...well under control. Of late, particularly."
"Oh, indeed. I suppose if INS detaining my Bishop and Sebastian going insane and Erik detonating himself in the middle of the city are under control, then we're perfectly fine," Emma retorts airly, stepping away once the zipper has run it's length. She holds the dress up with one arm and returns to the bed's side.
"/Going/ insane?" Travis says dryly. "Well, I can do little on /that/ front but...well, the great power outage of 2006 could be distraction anough to make a few nudges on homeland security effective."
"Possibly," Emma shrugs in cool dismissal and lets the dress drop and pool at her feet while she reaches for the sweater on the bed and pulls it on over her head.
"I was pleased enough with the official reports," Travis says, reverting to the topic at forefront of his attention. "In that, at least, Sebastian truly shines. With as many people as were involved..." he trails off, watching her movements in silence a moment.
Emma tucks her hands between her neck and hair to pull it free of the collar and glances back at him, sideswiping him with a glancing blow of telepathic power. "Oh. Yes... his strength is in action and organization. Subtlety and waiting strain him so." She turns and drops to a seat on the edge of the bed and begins rolling a stocking down off her leg. "I haven't had an opportunity to thank you yet," she murmurs quietly.
"Hardly necessary," Travis waves the comment aside. "Action was needed. I was here. Should have seen it coming and prevented it before she reached such extremes."
One, then the other is pulled off and she reaches behind her for loose-legged pants of soft material. "Yes. Of course. I'm sure you will be more alert to the signs, should there be another such occurrence," Emma says simply, coolly. She stands up, and with a smooth movement, the trousers are pulled on and she again moves toward him.
"There is the matter of rook. You need one."
Emma stops just on the inside of the doorframe, her passage into the office blocked by his bulk. "Yes," she acknowledges warily.
"It has been too long," Travis simply states, not shifting just yet. "Longer, since there has been an /effective/ rook. I'm running through my contacts lists for some recommendations. Interim, at best--loyal to at least your /money/ if not your person. Until you find someone better to your liking."
Emma shifts in her stance, a subtle movement broadcasting intent not to move, and slowly blinks. Her lips twitch and tighten, and she finally dips her head in a slight nod of recognition. "I appreciate that, Knight. Your... dedication is noted."
"It's hardly in my own interest to see you in the hospital," Travis says, each word carefully formed. "It's far time we see our courts balanced, and that can hardly happen with you wounded or distracted by shadows around each corner."
"I see." A note of approval worms its way around the words, as practicalness meets with mercenariness and finds a kindred viewpoint. "Well, in that case, can you verify for me the Erik was the source of the blackout? And lean on your contacts to predict which way the politicians will jump?"
"Is there a way we /want/ the politicians to jump, while I'm at it?"
"The way that will be the most benefit to us, of course," Emma says with a small shrug, looking to the side and into the office. "Its not apparent yet which direction that is, however. At least not to me. Sebastian has his own ideas."
Travis steps backward into the office, shifting to allow her entry. "Then we'll decide that when the time comes," Travis nods. "In the meantime, though, trouble for Lowe remains quite easy to spark."
Emma passes by him and turns for the desk and the bit of belated dinner brought up with her. "Care for some?" A piece of chicken is picked up between her fingers and slipped into her mouth.
"Dinner is always better with company,' Travis agrees, crossing the space in a few long strides and leaning against the desk. "So long as I'm not interrupting your relaxation time, of course.""
"Relaxation can be better with company," she answers archly, turning her back on him and hooking a hip over the edge of the desk.
"Often yes," Travis says, moving behind her. "You look in sore need of some dedicated down-time," he concludes, reaching for her shoulders and giving a gentle kneed.
I'm still not convinced this wasn't some attempt to clear out the white court so he could start over again After all this time lying low, though, I still have no evidence that Shaw had anything to do with the Sabitha incident, for all that his bluster afterwards reeked of show.
Whether he intended for her to survive or not, though, is pointless, now. White is weak. She needs a rook. And a king. Whether or not she admits it to herself.
=NYC= Apt 510 |Travis| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Most apartment complexes have back doors, at least if you know your way around locks. And back stairways. These are the methods Travis uses to access his hallway. The hallway itself is quickly traversed and the apartment door open and shut, allowing its tenant access without human contact. Pay no attention to the man behind Apt 510. Inside, he makes his way around the space each action already planned in advance. He's not staying long, so it would seem.
Indeed, so it would seem. However, most apartment complexes have thin walls. And the neighbour in apartment 520 has plans for the man behind Apt 510. Still keyed up, fending off the worried attentions of her butler-penguin, and still smelling strongly of cordite, a wild-eyed Ismena escapes from her apartment and makes the short trip over to Travis' door. Uncharacteristically, she knocks, and winces involuntarily as raising her arm to do so rips at the cauterized flesh on each bicep, freshening runnels of blood to further streak bared arms.
Travis freezes, cursing softly. He makes his way across the room, dropping clothes on the couch as he passes by. His shoulders relax, though, seeing the visitor, and he pulls open the door, motioning her inside.
Ismena drifts in, expression alternating between the poles of absent and in pain, with occasional stops at the equator of unholy delight. "Chinatown has fallen into chaos," she reports, tone as cool and precise as always, despite the fact that sleekly-arrayed hair is loose in a staticky cloud about her face. "I have need of a first aid kit."
Travis is busy closing the door behind her, and only with that accomplished does he notice her condition. "Shit. Ismena, what the hell happened?" He motions her to sit while he makes his way to the kitchen, where sounds of rummaging can be heard from the cabinets. He returns a moment later with a standard blue & white kit.
By the time Travis returns, Ismena has shrugged off the remains of her knit shawl, and folded it neatly on her lap. Movements precise, she folds hands still well-dusted with gunshot residue in her lap and sits still and tall, shoulders back. Arms bared by a shoulder-tie blouse, flawless olive skin fails at charred edges around an odd pair of burns. Slashes, they appear most like, if knives ever consisted of glowing plasma before this brave new day. "There was a riot," she explains, with the air of one repeating themselves. "In Chinatown. I happened to be in a position to assist..."
"I hadn't heard. I've been...away," Travis comments, setting the kit on the coffee table and pulling back the lid. The contents are certainly not the originals, nor are the hands that sift through them inexperienced. "Hydrogen peroxide? No...neosporin? What /are/ those?"
"I shot a man," Ismena provides, perhaps unhelpfully. "He was inclined to shoot back. Being a mutant, he came permanently armed."
"Tit for tat, hmm?" Travis passes her the tube of antibacterial gel. "I hope you hit him, at least," he says, fishing through for gauze with the hand that's not extended her way.
"Yes." Ismena seems quite content with this Pyrrhic victory, inclining her head with an absent, ophidian little smile. "Also others. But he was the one to rush up to me. He seemed terribly surprised to see a -woman-. Shall I hold out my arm for you?"
"That would make it easier," Travis nods, uncapping the bottle and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingertips. The gauze is set aside as he first works the gel over the cuts and burns, working in silence. "There are times when fast-acting abilities would be desireable," he finally says, replacing the cap. "That seem okay?"
The first arm lifts, offered with unconscious grace that falters in the middle as the muscles twinge again, and the small, drying streaks of blood start to life once more. Ismena does not swear, but she does hiss slightly, and catch her lower lip between her teeth, shoulders gone rigid. They don't ease as the antibacterial gel stings and burns and does its duty. "It is what needs to be done. But we really must take an evening to see what entertainment can be found. Riots are so tediously unpredictable -- this one could end far too soon."
Travis tosses the tube aside, reaching for the gauze and unwinding it. "Tell me if it's too tight," he instructs as he begins to wind it into place. "Life has been far too...quiet lately. A riot could be just the thing."
"Of course." Ismena makes no further move to flinch, however, although another hiss escapes as gauze touches burn-scored flesh. "And I feel that there has been somewhat of a boiling point reached. Mutant/human tension is right on the edge. A touch, here or there... it could be entertaining watching."
"Precious little entertainment lately," Travis says, a touch too bitterly as he ties off the bandage, eyeing it closely. "Tight enough?"
"It will do well." Tipping her head to get a look at the bandage for herself, Ismena nods slightly, and then presents Travis with the other arm. This one scored more deeply, there's a noticeable gouge taken cleanly from the muscle, front to back, enough to promise a markedly ugly scar. "And there is a large amount of bitterness in your voice, my neighbour and friend. You have been absent, lately. Running?"
"That one...I'm not sure gauze can handle," Travis says, giving an exaggerated examination of the wound while he forms an answer. "I'll wrap it for now, but you should find someplace...quiet...to have it looked at." He carefully begins to wrap it, more loosely than the other. "Running. Of a sort. Sabitha's dead," he adds after a moment. "I shot her. And thought it beneficial to vanish for a time."
"Quiet..." Ismena turns a blank blink upon Travis, before her eyes sharpen and focus, interest caught by the story. "It seems we have the both of us been shooting at things lately. Is she dead?"
"Very."
"Is her fireman our neighbour inclined towards vengeance?"
"There are...benefits of knowing the right people," Travis finally decides on the right words. "Sabitha died in a fired. You may have heard of it. Quite a tragedy." Pause. "I'm not entirely convinced she was sane. Moreso than normal for her, at least."
"Sanity can sometimes be more of a hindrance to true accomplishment than many would imagine." Ismena Diatrephes, Masters student in psychology, seems unaware of the irony of her musings. She prods gently at the looser of the two bandages, and then drapes her shawl, complete with matching hot knife holes in it, back around her shoulders as mild shock sets her to shaking. "So if the matter is covered suitably, you have no reason to lie low now, months, I presume, after the event. What is to be gained?"
"I wasn't hiding from the authorities," Travis says, drawing the words out slowly.
"Ah," Ismena nods slightly. "The right people are not entirely right."
"You likely don't understand how right you are," Travis says wryly, snapping the kit back shut before taking a seat on the couch. "I'd not expected company tonight, but I have to say I was pleasantly wrong."
Cheeks pale beneath an olive base tone, Ismena nevertheless awards Travis a smile as pleasant as any of hers ever get. Sometimes, it seems, pythons (Or is it Pythians?) can be pleased. "Then I shall naturally have to grace you with more of it. There is a city spread out at our feet that is ripe to be plucked."
"Ours for the taking," Travis says, a smile ever so slowly creeping into his much out-of-practice face. "Glass of wine?" he offers, "I believe in many traditions it is thought to help restore blood loss."
"I have also heard that it is dangerous. However," Ismena sits up, and twitches her shawl ends. "I would like wine."
Travis is off, returning moments later with two long-stemmed glasses full of red liquid. He passes one to her, before settling back down. "I fully expect any moment someone to barge through the door," he says cooly. "But you've restored my courage. So we drink wine. If I had food to offer, I would, so I apologize for that breech of hospitality."
"If you are that concerned, we can retire next door," suggests Ismena, threading her wineglass through her fingers with exaggerated grace that covers her continued trembling. "I recall that Jeeves left Ms. Frost's people rather baffled. No doubt he would do the same again."
"To others' men."
"I was careful," Travis shrugs, the look of one more than ready to life recklessly again. "Let them come, if they will. Hardly worth spoiling a good merlot."
"Then, to Chaos," Ismena proposes and toasts, her wineglass lifted and angled towards him.
"To Chaos multiplied," Travis lifts his glass her way before sipping. "It seems our way has been prepared, even without our knowledge."
"The will of the gods is inscrutable... but sometimes so very delicious," Ismena agrees, touching her glass to his before joining him in the first sip of wine. Potent on the heels of trauma and the low grade, persistant shock from it, she flutters her eyes closed for a moment at the strength behind the wine. On opening them, she sets about trying to set her hair to rights. "I suppose I should see about ridding myself of cordite. While I rather doubt that CSI is an accurate representation of police efficiency, my gun was lost in the crowds." A pause, and a slight moue of her lips. "I rather liked that gun."
"Yes, but there are so many more.../sophisticated/ weapons at our disposal," Travis encourages. "Ones I've been using sparingly of late, for obvious reasons."
"It was a very pretty gun. But yes... yes there are," Ismena is easily encouraged, the ophidian smile making a brief appearance before she reaches thirstily for more wine, and the spreading warmth that follows the drinking of it. "And now is the perfect time to toy with them. The people are so close to the edge."
"Working in concert..." Travis trails off. "At our fingertips."
"Yes. Tomorrow you'll take me to one of those 'quiet' clinics you suggested," Ismena sketches out a plan with a ginger, regal lift of one much-abused arm. "I imagine they'll be rather full of overexcited individuals."
"We'll find one. With all the excitement, you'll not even get a second glance, I'm sure." Travis comments. "So to us, as instruments of chaos."
"Hear, hear," Ismena pronounces. And then things fall to drinking, and to plotting, and to speculations that ought to leave New York City decidedly uncomfortable.
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
A dark, cold, dreary day had bled into a less dark evening as power was once again restored to the Island, and people once again made their way to familiar, companionable spots. Or whatever facsimiles they had. Now, as the evening winds down and talk of business and opportunities the crisis might herald (for crisis' always profit someone), Emma climbs the stairs to the upper floors and her chambers, a glass of wine in one hand, and a plate of cold chicken in her other. A pawn sweeps the door open ahead of her.
The armchair is already occupied, though that point would be obvious to the searching mind. As the door opens, Travis snaps closed the book in his lap, looking up as she enters. He's more cleaned up than of recent days, though a few days of beard growth are the exception to his usual appearance. "Good evening, Emma."
Emma had caught the quiet whisper of her Knight's mind as she entered the hallway, and so there is no surprise on her face when she enters, though the pawn looks a little discomfited. Emma nods the door shut and crosses to her desk to drop plate and glass off before moving toward the interior compartment. "Travis. So kind of you to finally make an appearance," she replies acerbically. The lights of her bedroom spring to life, and she sighs as she disappears inside. "At least the power has returned."
Travis sets the book on the arm of the chair before standing. He crosses the room, stopping on the other side of the door. "You are looking well. As is this place," he adds, gaze sweeping around the room.
Emma stops before heading into the closet to look around as well. "Yes. They did a tolerable job in rebuilding." Another light flicks on and she pulls a drawer open to retrieve more comfortable clothing than the cocktail dress and heels she is currently sporting. The footwear are abandoned in the floor behind her, and she throws her change of clothes on the bed as she approaches it. "What has stirred you out of hiding? Finally get tired of no running water and peanut butter and crackers?"
"Life on the streets keeps your wits sharp," Travis shrugs. "I highly recommend an occasional jaunt...for most people." He leans against the doorframe, watching her movements. "Recent events, though, to answer your question. And having having proceeded as far as was...efficient while solo."
"And now efficiency has brought you back into the fold?" Emma purrs, passing up the clothing on the bed to approach him. She stops in front of him and tips her head back, gold waves tickling between bared shoulders. "So. What do you recommend for me?" A pause, and then she looks down, then up with a lifted brow before turning around and lifting her hair. "Get the zipper for me, darling?"
"I tend to think of it as completing my sortie, rather than straying," Travis comments as he obliges, moving the metal clasp down its track. "And I hardly think you need /my/ recommendations. Things here seem...well under control. Of late, particularly."
"Oh, indeed. I suppose if INS detaining my Bishop and Sebastian going insane and Erik detonating himself in the middle of the city are under control, then we're perfectly fine," Emma retorts airly, stepping away once the zipper has run it's length. She holds the dress up with one arm and returns to the bed's side.
"/Going/ insane?" Travis says dryly. "Well, I can do little on /that/ front but...well, the great power outage of 2006 could be distraction anough to make a few nudges on homeland security effective."
"Possibly," Emma shrugs in cool dismissal and lets the dress drop and pool at her feet while she reaches for the sweater on the bed and pulls it on over her head.
"I was pleased enough with the official reports," Travis says, reverting to the topic at forefront of his attention. "In that, at least, Sebastian truly shines. With as many people as were involved..." he trails off, watching her movements in silence a moment.
Emma tucks her hands between her neck and hair to pull it free of the collar and glances back at him, sideswiping him with a glancing blow of telepathic power. "Oh. Yes... his strength is in action and organization. Subtlety and waiting strain him so." She turns and drops to a seat on the edge of the bed and begins rolling a stocking down off her leg. "I haven't had an opportunity to thank you yet," she murmurs quietly.
"Hardly necessary," Travis waves the comment aside. "Action was needed. I was here. Should have seen it coming and prevented it before she reached such extremes."
One, then the other is pulled off and she reaches behind her for loose-legged pants of soft material. "Yes. Of course. I'm sure you will be more alert to the signs, should there be another such occurrence," Emma says simply, coolly. She stands up, and with a smooth movement, the trousers are pulled on and she again moves toward him.
"There is the matter of rook. You need one."
Emma stops just on the inside of the doorframe, her passage into the office blocked by his bulk. "Yes," she acknowledges warily.
"It has been too long," Travis simply states, not shifting just yet. "Longer, since there has been an /effective/ rook. I'm running through my contacts lists for some recommendations. Interim, at best--loyal to at least your /money/ if not your person. Until you find someone better to your liking."
Emma shifts in her stance, a subtle movement broadcasting intent not to move, and slowly blinks. Her lips twitch and tighten, and she finally dips her head in a slight nod of recognition. "I appreciate that, Knight. Your... dedication is noted."
"It's hardly in my own interest to see you in the hospital," Travis says, each word carefully formed. "It's far time we see our courts balanced, and that can hardly happen with you wounded or distracted by shadows around each corner."
"I see." A note of approval worms its way around the words, as practicalness meets with mercenariness and finds a kindred viewpoint. "Well, in that case, can you verify for me the Erik was the source of the blackout? And lean on your contacts to predict which way the politicians will jump?"
"Is there a way we /want/ the politicians to jump, while I'm at it?"
"The way that will be the most benefit to us, of course," Emma says with a small shrug, looking to the side and into the office. "Its not apparent yet which direction that is, however. At least not to me. Sebastian has his own ideas."
Travis steps backward into the office, shifting to allow her entry. "Then we'll decide that when the time comes," Travis nods. "In the meantime, though, trouble for Lowe remains quite easy to spark."
Emma passes by him and turns for the desk and the bit of belated dinner brought up with her. "Care for some?" A piece of chicken is picked up between her fingers and slipped into her mouth.
"Dinner is always better with company,' Travis agrees, crossing the space in a few long strides and leaning against the desk. "So long as I'm not interrupting your relaxation time, of course.""
"Relaxation can be better with company," she answers archly, turning her back on him and hooking a hip over the edge of the desk.
"Often yes," Travis says, moving behind her. "You look in sore need of some dedicated down-time," he concludes, reaching for her shoulders and giving a gentle kneed.