(no subject)
OOC note: She uses 'unheimlich' in here, which is one of the only German words I know. It translates roughly to 'uncanny' but Ellen insists that that does not do it justice. Sigh. I am the bitch of the voices in my head.
My wrists and ankles feel astoundingly naked right now. I hope there is nobody near my room with mutated hearing powerful enough to hear my heartbeat, because it is really humiliatingly fast at the moment. I am going to return to my work with the mice momentarily, but for now I really must write about this ... get it down on paper so that I can, perhaps, return to a state that could be described by no one as "girlish glee".
Oh, gods. I really just wrote that, didn't I? Well, the thing about ink is that you can't erase, and anyway, it's humiliatingly the truth. This morning I was unsettled, filled with a sense of the unheimlich and now I feel optimistic and happy. How to sort out everything in my head, in a way that will not make me want to wretch to read it later? It may be too late for that.
This I can write, without shame: He demanded my loyalty, in exchange for my freedom.
I would have given it to him regardless.
<> Magneto's Office - Brotherhood HQ(#438RC)
However enormous, Magneto's Office is somewhat sparsely furnished. Predictably, it's constructed primarily of metals like the dull walls almost lost in the shadows, the glistening floor, and the desk and chairs located at one end of the room. A few stacks of papers lay strewn across the surface of the desk, sometimes, as well as a strange version of an Isaac's cradle. Sans supports, there appears to be only a set of metal balls clicking against each other perpetually in thin air. Although it looks to be simply a blank wall whilst not in operation, behind and above the desk is located a huge viewscreen capable of many purposes from map tracking to security camera monitoring.
Magneto
Cool blue eyes are guarded by an inescapably icey edge beneath expressive brows and a shock of silver-white hair, the Master of Magnetism's regal countenance only furthered by the hard lines etched in around his mouth and eyes. His arrogant posture largely defined by broad shoulders and a rigid spine, Erik just reaches six feet in height, with the air he surrounds himself with generally working to make him appear larger than he actually is. Hard lines and a militaryesque cut serve to accentuate broad shoulders and a proud build, the dark charcoal grey of his ribbed sweater leading down into black slacks, and a pair of heavily shined combat boots.
Heavy metal doors cracked open enough to promote air circulation through his office, glasses on, Erik is currently researching public opinion and recent events. Put less dramatically, he's reading a copy of the Times, with a red marker in hand. On the front and back pages of the main section exposed to the office at large, there are a few marks here and there - one headline regarding suspected FoH activity circled near the bottom left hand corner. Dressed typically in a dark navy dress shirt and black slacks, he looks remarkably unthreatening seated on the corner of his own desk as he currently is, with the rest of the paper on the surface behind him.
Punctuality is the byword of the continually nervous, and Valkyrie finds herself - hurriedly dressed in the same black dress pants, tan shirt and sensible flats she has previously designated as meetingwear - stalling with knuckles poised for a knock outside Magneto's office door. It's the knowledge that she's a scant two or three minutes early, in addition to the fact that she has a desperate desire to impress favorably, that keeps her frozen on the threshhold. But she inwardly shakes herself, takes a deep breath, and knocks thrice, briskly.
There's a twinge of a smile at the faint tug of metal bands on the approach, then the sound of audible footfalls that accompany the feeling. Still, the ice if his gaze doesn't lift from the open paper until she knocks, a nodded greeting preceeding a snap as the paper is jerked straight and folded back in upon itself. Legs long enough to allow contact with the ground even while seated on his desk, Erik stands nonetheless as the main section is tossed lazily back atop its lesser companions, the marker following in short order. "Good afternoon, Ms. Dramstadt."
A last name and a title! Ellen shows restraint in offering only the slightest of smiles at sounds gone long unfamiliar. She returns his nod with one of her own, fingers lacing together into a clasp behind her back, and answers, without a tremor of nervousness - her low alto cool and pleasant: "Good afternoon, sir."
"Have a seat, if you like." Erik's back is turned briefly as he moves to seat himself behind his desk, the tick of the Isaac's Cradle echoing another slow nod to acknowledge her greeting in return.
Ellen perches, as invited, at the edge of a chair facing his desk, crossing her ankles neatly before her and clasping her hands together in her lap. "Thank you," she answers.
"Mmm." Glasses removed and folded as Erik lowers himself down into his own chair, he takes a few seconds to look her over - measuring - before he moves directly on to business. "In the time that you've been here, how would you say you're fitting in?"
Ellen tilts her head ever-so-slightly to one side, considering the question and also, how to answer it. Uncertainty - which is the real answer - does not seem like a very good option. Lying seems even worse. She moistens her lips. "I have made every effort to be pleasant and efficient," she says. She's very good at the latter. The former is something of a headache to maintain; people seem to mistake composure for indifference. This makes Chrome a breath of fresh air, and she's a little bewildered by everyone else. "I believe these efforts have been more successful with some than others, but I think that for the most part I have ... acclimatized ... well."
Magneto nods to that, accepting without question in tone, posture, expression, or gaze, though he's certainly keeping a close eye on her. "Such is to be expected, given the nature of this island and a majority of its occupants. No glaring problems, then? Concerns or worries, perhaps, that something may eventually develop into something dangerous or disruptive?"
A thoughtful frown pulls down Ellen's mouth at the corners. "I can't think of anything," she replies. Unless of course somebody comes across the journal pages hidden in her desk and happens to decipher them, but this is hardly even a concern. She also doesn't suspect Toad likes her very much, but then she very much doubts it's Toad's job to like anybody.
Magneto simply watches her for a good minute - saying nothing. And then, with a series of muffled klunks, the magnetic locking mechanism within the apparently flawless design of each band is released - the halves of each band falling neatly apart, only to hover a few inches above the floor that they would have otherwise impacted. "Very well. Is there anything else you wish to discuss while you have my full attention?"
Ellen draws the fingers of first one hand, and then its opposite, over the bare skin of her arms where the bands were just a moment ago, a smile she can't quite suppress curving her mouth. The full attention of her leader is a precious thing, as far as she's concerned, but there's not really much she can think of to do with it. "I might wish to thank you for bringing me here, sir," she says, tone extremely mild. The thought of gushing at him is extremely abhorrent, and she keeps a tight rein her emotions in order to avoid the slightest hint of it.
"You might?" Is that amusement in the faint upward twinge of one brow? "Then I suppose it might be prudent for me to thank you for agreeing to our terms without fault in turn. Your combat training with Bella begins tomorrow. And while I do tend to stay busy, if anything else of importance should come to mind, I check my email with reasonable frequency."
Ellen nods, the faintest of flushes pinking her cheeks, though she's not unappreciative of the glimpse of humor, from the answering glint in blue-gray eyes. "I look forward to it," she replies mildly. "I would hate to be a liability in combat." Which right now she almost certainly would be, and that surely does rankle. She dips her head slightly in acknowledgment of his accessibility over email. "I'll be certain to write to you if anything vital occurs, sir."
Magneto allows a faint smile at the flush, hardly detectable before it's faded again, and he's scraped his chair back to stand. "Comprehensible. Fortunately, your worth to the Brotherhood extends well beyond your capability on the front lines. But if that is all, then you are dismissed." The bands, having refastened themselves around thin air, drift in pairs to settle on the desk - one of the ankle bands hesitating before being drawn up into his waiting hand to be examined.
The tall blonde slides to her feet as well and nods to him again, her expression restored to its customary composed mask save for the light of energy in her eyes she can't quite suppress. "Thank you, sir," answers Valkyrie swiftly.
Magneto nods to the 'thank you,' one last glance made to check eye-contact before he turns to pace to the back wall, the metal band turning over lazily just above the curled fingers of his lifted left hand.
Ellen turns and leaves the room at a brisk pace, like a woman on a mission - she's got mice to feed, and mouse toes to remove and regrow, and possibly more journal writing to do, so to burn off some of this extraneous emotional energy.
Magneto turns just enough to follow her out with his peripheral vision, cold eyes lingering on the door for a few seconds once she's passed through it. Only then is the control panel slid aside, and the massive screen that is the back wall activated as the doors grind heavily shut.
My wrists and ankles feel astoundingly naked right now. I hope there is nobody near my room with mutated hearing powerful enough to hear my heartbeat, because it is really humiliatingly fast at the moment. I am going to return to my work with the mice momentarily, but for now I really must write about this ... get it down on paper so that I can, perhaps, return to a state that could be described by no one as "girlish glee".
Oh, gods. I really just wrote that, didn't I? Well, the thing about ink is that you can't erase, and anyway, it's humiliatingly the truth. This morning I was unsettled, filled with a sense of the unheimlich and now I feel optimistic and happy. How to sort out everything in my head, in a way that will not make me want to wretch to read it later? It may be too late for that.
This I can write, without shame: He demanded my loyalty, in exchange for my freedom.
I would have given it to him regardless.
<> Magneto's Office - Brotherhood HQ(#438RC)
However enormous, Magneto's Office is somewhat sparsely furnished. Predictably, it's constructed primarily of metals like the dull walls almost lost in the shadows, the glistening floor, and the desk and chairs located at one end of the room. A few stacks of papers lay strewn across the surface of the desk, sometimes, as well as a strange version of an Isaac's cradle. Sans supports, there appears to be only a set of metal balls clicking against each other perpetually in thin air. Although it looks to be simply a blank wall whilst not in operation, behind and above the desk is located a huge viewscreen capable of many purposes from map tracking to security camera monitoring.
Magneto
Cool blue eyes are guarded by an inescapably icey edge beneath expressive brows and a shock of silver-white hair, the Master of Magnetism's regal countenance only furthered by the hard lines etched in around his mouth and eyes. His arrogant posture largely defined by broad shoulders and a rigid spine, Erik just reaches six feet in height, with the air he surrounds himself with generally working to make him appear larger than he actually is. Hard lines and a militaryesque cut serve to accentuate broad shoulders and a proud build, the dark charcoal grey of his ribbed sweater leading down into black slacks, and a pair of heavily shined combat boots.
Heavy metal doors cracked open enough to promote air circulation through his office, glasses on, Erik is currently researching public opinion and recent events. Put less dramatically, he's reading a copy of the Times, with a red marker in hand. On the front and back pages of the main section exposed to the office at large, there are a few marks here and there - one headline regarding suspected FoH activity circled near the bottom left hand corner. Dressed typically in a dark navy dress shirt and black slacks, he looks remarkably unthreatening seated on the corner of his own desk as he currently is, with the rest of the paper on the surface behind him.
Punctuality is the byword of the continually nervous, and Valkyrie finds herself - hurriedly dressed in the same black dress pants, tan shirt and sensible flats she has previously designated as meetingwear - stalling with knuckles poised for a knock outside Magneto's office door. It's the knowledge that she's a scant two or three minutes early, in addition to the fact that she has a desperate desire to impress favorably, that keeps her frozen on the threshhold. But she inwardly shakes herself, takes a deep breath, and knocks thrice, briskly.
There's a twinge of a smile at the faint tug of metal bands on the approach, then the sound of audible footfalls that accompany the feeling. Still, the ice if his gaze doesn't lift from the open paper until she knocks, a nodded greeting preceeding a snap as the paper is jerked straight and folded back in upon itself. Legs long enough to allow contact with the ground even while seated on his desk, Erik stands nonetheless as the main section is tossed lazily back atop its lesser companions, the marker following in short order. "Good afternoon, Ms. Dramstadt."
A last name and a title! Ellen shows restraint in offering only the slightest of smiles at sounds gone long unfamiliar. She returns his nod with one of her own, fingers lacing together into a clasp behind her back, and answers, without a tremor of nervousness - her low alto cool and pleasant: "Good afternoon, sir."
"Have a seat, if you like." Erik's back is turned briefly as he moves to seat himself behind his desk, the tick of the Isaac's Cradle echoing another slow nod to acknowledge her greeting in return.
Ellen perches, as invited, at the edge of a chair facing his desk, crossing her ankles neatly before her and clasping her hands together in her lap. "Thank you," she answers.
"Mmm." Glasses removed and folded as Erik lowers himself down into his own chair, he takes a few seconds to look her over - measuring - before he moves directly on to business. "In the time that you've been here, how would you say you're fitting in?"
Ellen tilts her head ever-so-slightly to one side, considering the question and also, how to answer it. Uncertainty - which is the real answer - does not seem like a very good option. Lying seems even worse. She moistens her lips. "I have made every effort to be pleasant and efficient," she says. She's very good at the latter. The former is something of a headache to maintain; people seem to mistake composure for indifference. This makes Chrome a breath of fresh air, and she's a little bewildered by everyone else. "I believe these efforts have been more successful with some than others, but I think that for the most part I have ... acclimatized ... well."
Magneto nods to that, accepting without question in tone, posture, expression, or gaze, though he's certainly keeping a close eye on her. "Such is to be expected, given the nature of this island and a majority of its occupants. No glaring problems, then? Concerns or worries, perhaps, that something may eventually develop into something dangerous or disruptive?"
A thoughtful frown pulls down Ellen's mouth at the corners. "I can't think of anything," she replies. Unless of course somebody comes across the journal pages hidden in her desk and happens to decipher them, but this is hardly even a concern. She also doesn't suspect Toad likes her very much, but then she very much doubts it's Toad's job to like anybody.
Magneto simply watches her for a good minute - saying nothing. And then, with a series of muffled klunks, the magnetic locking mechanism within the apparently flawless design of each band is released - the halves of each band falling neatly apart, only to hover a few inches above the floor that they would have otherwise impacted. "Very well. Is there anything else you wish to discuss while you have my full attention?"
Ellen draws the fingers of first one hand, and then its opposite, over the bare skin of her arms where the bands were just a moment ago, a smile she can't quite suppress curving her mouth. The full attention of her leader is a precious thing, as far as she's concerned, but there's not really much she can think of to do with it. "I might wish to thank you for bringing me here, sir," she says, tone extremely mild. The thought of gushing at him is extremely abhorrent, and she keeps a tight rein her emotions in order to avoid the slightest hint of it.
"You might?" Is that amusement in the faint upward twinge of one brow? "Then I suppose it might be prudent for me to thank you for agreeing to our terms without fault in turn. Your combat training with Bella begins tomorrow. And while I do tend to stay busy, if anything else of importance should come to mind, I check my email with reasonable frequency."
Ellen nods, the faintest of flushes pinking her cheeks, though she's not unappreciative of the glimpse of humor, from the answering glint in blue-gray eyes. "I look forward to it," she replies mildly. "I would hate to be a liability in combat." Which right now she almost certainly would be, and that surely does rankle. She dips her head slightly in acknowledgment of his accessibility over email. "I'll be certain to write to you if anything vital occurs, sir."
Magneto allows a faint smile at the flush, hardly detectable before it's faded again, and he's scraped his chair back to stand. "Comprehensible. Fortunately, your worth to the Brotherhood extends well beyond your capability on the front lines. But if that is all, then you are dismissed." The bands, having refastened themselves around thin air, drift in pairs to settle on the desk - one of the ankle bands hesitating before being drawn up into his waiting hand to be examined.
The tall blonde slides to her feet as well and nods to him again, her expression restored to its customary composed mask save for the light of energy in her eyes she can't quite suppress. "Thank you, sir," answers Valkyrie swiftly.
Magneto nods to the 'thank you,' one last glance made to check eye-contact before he turns to pace to the back wall, the metal band turning over lazily just above the curled fingers of his lifted left hand.
Ellen turns and leaves the room at a brisk pace, like a woman on a mission - she's got mice to feed, and mouse toes to remove and regrow, and possibly more journal writing to do, so to burn off some of this extraneous emotional energy.
Magneto turns just enough to follow her out with his peripheral vision, cold eyes lingering on the door for a few seconds once she's passed through it. Only then is the control panel slid aside, and the massive screen that is the back wall activated as the doors grind heavily shut.