6/17/08 - Emma
---
"Call for you, Ms. Frost. It is a Charles Xavier. He's on your list..." Emma rolls her eyes as she reaches to thumb her intercom button. "That's fine, Jessica. I will take it." Another light on her phone lights up as Jessica transfers the hold to Emma's phone. It stays lit for another few moments while Emma subtly (or not so subtly) emphasizes her importance and the value of her time. When she does pick up, it is on a video conferencing set-up that allows pick up of audio from anywhere in the room. She rocks back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap, her long, blonde hair laying in sleek lines over her shoulders. "Charles," she purrs, pouring heat and sweetness into her voice like warm maple syrup.
Such games work better when there is an actual person on the other end of the line.
"Please hold," says a computerized voice, efficient pancake to Emma's sugar; a snatch of music filters violently through the line, some dramatic, symphonic soliloquy that rages through the room before it is cut off with a suddenness that leaves deafening silence in its wake.
And then there is Charles.
Too much of Charles, as it happens. The immediate focus is on his nose, which is a handsome nose as such things go, though perhaps not meant for such massive levels of magnification. A few seconds later the viewscreen pans back, wobbles wildly, then steadies with a determined view of his right shoulder and ear. He is dressed in grey today. Surprise. "Ah," says his voice, and there is faint exasperation in it. "I beg your pardon. We're suffering some technical difficulties, I believe. Unless you have actually painted yourself purple for the day, that is? Good day, Emma."
"Doubtful, Charles," Emma drawls, the syrup cooling and congealing slightly. The purple does become her. It would be hard to find something that didn't, though. She flicks a glance up to the corner of the monitor where a feedback frame sits to ensure that no such unflattering displays of /her/ carefully crafted nose are being transmitted, then lifts her brow. "Is it a good day? I hadn't noticed."
"It rather depends--" says the image of Charles, which has swayed drunkenly in the screen and now appears to be gravely turning upside-down in defiance of gravity, "--on one's definition. I'm afraid our technical staff has taken advantage of the break between school sessions to update our equipment. Some of my contacts in Washington have been able to unearth information regarding the Sentinel project. As per our agr--"
The rest of the word is lost to a violent crashing sound in the background, and the image abruptly develops an obsessive interest in his left eyebrow. Which wiggles.
"Are you sure they aren't allowing some of your student's to /assist/ in those upgrades?" she wonders, leaning sideways on an elbow and drifting dangerously close to having her head cut off by the frame. Not that Xavier is in any position to notice. Emma waits a moment to see if the eyebrow will do anymore acrobatics before venturing, "We could simply /meet/, you know."
The picture pans out. "/As/ I was saying," Charles says, in a mighty application of dignity over disaster. A metal claw, three-pronged, appears in blurry close-up on the screen, quite obscuring the suddenly remote figure of the telepath. There is a faint squeaking noise. The claw waves at Emma. Hi! "My contacts in DC have supplied me with some names regarding the Sentinel project. I presume you would like to know them. If," he adds a bit acidly, "you are not already aware, something that I confess to some curiosity about, given recent activity."
The claw approaches the camera, getting even blurrier, and then goes bink! on the glass.
Emma blinks and shifts back involuntarily at the bink, then frowns, her brows drawing closer and a faint line appearing between them. "If you are referring to Eric's activities the other evening, you should be aware that Eric rarely deigns to consult me about his intentions. I hope /that/--" the word is very nearly spit--"satisfies your /curiosity/." Emma ducks her head, as if trying to see around the mechanical claw's maneuvering. "Your names would be appreciated in any case."
Bink! goes the claw again. Bink! BINk! BINK! A hand appears out of nowhere, off-screen, and yanks the claw away. Charles is unruffled, though a faint crease is visible between his eyebrows. "Subtlety would be the appropriate strategy at this point," he advises, leaning to one side to tap an off-camera control. A small readout appears on the screen; names and companies scroll past in the bottom corner of the terminal. "Gathering information at this point would be far more productive than what I'm sure Erik's instincts will urge."
"I tend to agree, Charles. However, I will not interfere with his... urges until and unless they threaten broader exposure." Emma narrows her eyes and lifts a hand, palm out. "I am sure you have an understanding of the precarious position I am in at the moment." She does not need to tap a button. Her equipment has been recording the conversation since it started. "This information is a starting point. Thank you."
Charles's mouth moves, curving towards what might eventually become a smile -- or a grimace. His hand dips into his suit pocket to produce a pipe, which he begins to fill from some source off-stage. "I understand completely," he says, mildly. "But the use of our information exchange to commit unnecessary violence against certain parties would be ... counterproductive. I'm sure you agree." His glance flicks up through lashes, quizzical.
Emma snorts softly and quirks a wry, calculating smile through the camera at him. "Are you asking me to withhold this information from him?" she asks baldly, lowering her lashes to shield her eyes from acute observation.
"The extent to which you disseminate information through the Circle is your affair, my dear," says Charles, packing in the tobacco with a practiced thumb before fishing for a box of wooden matches. He extricates one, apparently oblivious of the small, single-armed robot that trundles busily across the room behind him on some errand. It has three claws at the end of its arm. "However, the uses to which that information is put is mine, to some extent. A door can be used in both directions."
Blue eyes peer from behind the veil of lashes and watch the flashes of the procedure available through the camera with distant expression of one seeing into the past rather than concentrating on the present. "Indeed it can. I have already promised reciprocal information, should we come across it," Emma points out vaguely.
The Professor lights his match with a quick strike against the side of his chair and sets it to his pipe, hazel eyes shrewd over the bowl. Smoke begins to rise. "I refer, as you know quite well, to Erik's activities. If the anti-social spirit should move him, that is. I believe it would serve both our interests if he would /not/ exacerbate the situation any further than he already--"
The robot careens fussily back across the screen, this time between Charles and the camera. It is carrying a fire extinguisher. It is quite possible that a quick eye could pick out the 'Stark' branded into the side of its long neck.
It is unusual for Charles Xavier to give way to his emotions. "Oh, /bolloc--/" he begins. The screen goes white. Then black.
Call over.
[Log ends]
Xavier does as promised and sends a word to the wise Emma's way.
"Call for you, Ms. Frost. It is a Charles Xavier. He's on your list..." Emma rolls her eyes as she reaches to thumb her intercom button. "That's fine, Jessica. I will take it." Another light on her phone lights up as Jessica transfers the hold to Emma's phone. It stays lit for another few moments while Emma subtly (or not so subtly) emphasizes her importance and the value of her time. When she does pick up, it is on a video conferencing set-up that allows pick up of audio from anywhere in the room. She rocks back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap, her long, blonde hair laying in sleek lines over her shoulders. "Charles," she purrs, pouring heat and sweetness into her voice like warm maple syrup.
Such games work better when there is an actual person on the other end of the line.
"Please hold," says a computerized voice, efficient pancake to Emma's sugar; a snatch of music filters violently through the line, some dramatic, symphonic soliloquy that rages through the room before it is cut off with a suddenness that leaves deafening silence in its wake.
And then there is Charles.
Too much of Charles, as it happens. The immediate focus is on his nose, which is a handsome nose as such things go, though perhaps not meant for such massive levels of magnification. A few seconds later the viewscreen pans back, wobbles wildly, then steadies with a determined view of his right shoulder and ear. He is dressed in grey today. Surprise. "Ah," says his voice, and there is faint exasperation in it. "I beg your pardon. We're suffering some technical difficulties, I believe. Unless you have actually painted yourself purple for the day, that is? Good day, Emma."
"Doubtful, Charles," Emma drawls, the syrup cooling and congealing slightly. The purple does become her. It would be hard to find something that didn't, though. She flicks a glance up to the corner of the monitor where a feedback frame sits to ensure that no such unflattering displays of /her/ carefully crafted nose are being transmitted, then lifts her brow. "Is it a good day? I hadn't noticed."
"It rather depends--" says the image of Charles, which has swayed drunkenly in the screen and now appears to be gravely turning upside-down in defiance of gravity, "--on one's definition. I'm afraid our technical staff has taken advantage of the break between school sessions to update our equipment. Some of my contacts in Washington have been able to unearth information regarding the Sentinel project. As per our agr--"
The rest of the word is lost to a violent crashing sound in the background, and the image abruptly develops an obsessive interest in his left eyebrow. Which wiggles.
"Are you sure they aren't allowing some of your student's to /assist/ in those upgrades?" she wonders, leaning sideways on an elbow and drifting dangerously close to having her head cut off by the frame. Not that Xavier is in any position to notice. Emma waits a moment to see if the eyebrow will do anymore acrobatics before venturing, "We could simply /meet/, you know."
The picture pans out. "/As/ I was saying," Charles says, in a mighty application of dignity over disaster. A metal claw, three-pronged, appears in blurry close-up on the screen, quite obscuring the suddenly remote figure of the telepath. There is a faint squeaking noise. The claw waves at Emma. Hi! "My contacts in DC have supplied me with some names regarding the Sentinel project. I presume you would like to know them. If," he adds a bit acidly, "you are not already aware, something that I confess to some curiosity about, given recent activity."
The claw approaches the camera, getting even blurrier, and then goes bink! on the glass.
Emma blinks and shifts back involuntarily at the bink, then frowns, her brows drawing closer and a faint line appearing between them. "If you are referring to Eric's activities the other evening, you should be aware that Eric rarely deigns to consult me about his intentions. I hope /that/--" the word is very nearly spit--"satisfies your /curiosity/." Emma ducks her head, as if trying to see around the mechanical claw's maneuvering. "Your names would be appreciated in any case."
Bink! goes the claw again. Bink! BINk! BINK! A hand appears out of nowhere, off-screen, and yanks the claw away. Charles is unruffled, though a faint crease is visible between his eyebrows. "Subtlety would be the appropriate strategy at this point," he advises, leaning to one side to tap an off-camera control. A small readout appears on the screen; names and companies scroll past in the bottom corner of the terminal. "Gathering information at this point would be far more productive than what I'm sure Erik's instincts will urge."
"I tend to agree, Charles. However, I will not interfere with his... urges until and unless they threaten broader exposure." Emma narrows her eyes and lifts a hand, palm out. "I am sure you have an understanding of the precarious position I am in at the moment." She does not need to tap a button. Her equipment has been recording the conversation since it started. "This information is a starting point. Thank you."
Charles's mouth moves, curving towards what might eventually become a smile -- or a grimace. His hand dips into his suit pocket to produce a pipe, which he begins to fill from some source off-stage. "I understand completely," he says, mildly. "But the use of our information exchange to commit unnecessary violence against certain parties would be ... counterproductive. I'm sure you agree." His glance flicks up through lashes, quizzical.
Emma snorts softly and quirks a wry, calculating smile through the camera at him. "Are you asking me to withhold this information from him?" she asks baldly, lowering her lashes to shield her eyes from acute observation.
"The extent to which you disseminate information through the Circle is your affair, my dear," says Charles, packing in the tobacco with a practiced thumb before fishing for a box of wooden matches. He extricates one, apparently oblivious of the small, single-armed robot that trundles busily across the room behind him on some errand. It has three claws at the end of its arm. "However, the uses to which that information is put is mine, to some extent. A door can be used in both directions."
Blue eyes peer from behind the veil of lashes and watch the flashes of the procedure available through the camera with distant expression of one seeing into the past rather than concentrating on the present. "Indeed it can. I have already promised reciprocal information, should we come across it," Emma points out vaguely.
The Professor lights his match with a quick strike against the side of his chair and sets it to his pipe, hazel eyes shrewd over the bowl. Smoke begins to rise. "I refer, as you know quite well, to Erik's activities. If the anti-social spirit should move him, that is. I believe it would serve both our interests if he would /not/ exacerbate the situation any further than he already--"
The robot careens fussily back across the screen, this time between Charles and the camera. It is carrying a fire extinguisher. It is quite possible that a quick eye could pick out the 'Stark' branded into the side of its long neck.
It is unusual for Charles Xavier to give way to his emotions. "Oh, /bolloc--/" he begins. The screen goes white. Then black.
Call over.
[Log ends]
Xavier does as promised and sends a word to the wise Emma's way.