Henry, not as a rule but out of habit, did not spend a great deal of time in what was called the rec room, too frustrated by the magic and supposed technological advances both to have much patience for putting up with it. However,n passing through, it was hard not to notice a woman suddenly lying on the couch where there hadn't been one before, and though logic made clear what the situation was, curiosity compelled him to walk over, standing not far off with his arms folded over his chest. "'Tis not an ideal place to lie," he told her, "if quiet is what you wish."
Emma doesn't simply sit bolt upright - she swings her legs over the side and gets to her feet, not caring that she can feel the air through the back of what must be a sizable gash in the back of her blazer. She will not take this lying down, whatever this may be. He's not unattractive, but it's not his features that hold her attention. It's the sudden deafening silence, the overwhelming realization that she can't hear him at all, not one thought. She can't hear any of them.
Fixing him with a glare, she's fast running out of patience with the situation. "I'd much prefer you tell me where I am."
Eyebrows raising at both her tone and the way she looked at him, Henry let out a breath that, under other circumstances, might have been a laugh. Between her clothing -- leaving little to the imagination, as it would have been impossible not to notice -- and her manner, it was easy to tell that she had to be from his future, something not half as alarming as it might have been a couple of months earlier, but no less strange. Added to that the fact that he had never explained this place to anyone before, and he was in entirely new territory.
Not that he was about to act like he was.
"A land far from where you were moments ago," he replied bluntly, seeing no reason to avoid the truth. "An island, called Tabula Rasa. I know no more of how we came to be here than you must."
While Emma appreciates a willingness not to waste time dithering over tact, she bridles at that half-laugh and the implication of her ignorance, true or otherwise. The absolute absence of her power is like a ringing in her ears, a silence too vast to ignore.
"That's all well and good," she says wryly, "but if I wanted an island vacation, I would have booked one myself. Let me guess - you've no idea how to leave either." She can't see why else anyone would be in this room right now.
It's never going to be Sean's favourite place on the island by any stretch of the imagination, but he still makes a habit out of stopping by the rec room on a daily basis, even if only to see if anyone he knows is around or to muck around on the piano a bit. Normally, with such important business to attend to, he likely wouldn't have paid some woman on a couch much mind, but something in the way she looks awful ill at ease for someone trying to take a nap spurs him to say something. He's not too concerned, but it doesn't hurt to play it safe.
Emma shuts her eyes and sighs, put-upon. "Oh, lovely," she says, looking up at the ceiling again. "I suppose this means I've died after all. I've died, I'm in hell and hell is buried somewhere deep in your psyche. I ought to have known."
She doesn't believe that, of course. She's too good at what she does and getting thrown against the tree might have hurt, but it certainly didn't kill her. Still, she can think of no way to account for once again being trapped somewhere in Sean's memory of the unsurprisingly dingy past and unable to read his thoughts. Except that he can see her and that's never happened before.
Sitting up, she narrows her eyes at him. "Where are we?"
"Ehm," Sean says dumbly, slightly thrown by that. Alright, so she's just arrived, there's nothing wrong with that. He's got a duty to perform here, getting her acquainted with her situation and all, but her particular reaction of recognition seems to throw the standard pitch straight out the window.
"It's an island," he says, but he changes conversational directions almost before the last word is even out, putting up a hand. "Wait up, jus' how d'ye think ye know me?" He's been recognized many a time here before, of course, but first he needs to know if she's another one who'll actually know him one day or just someone he happens to look like. Maybe if he's really lucky, she'll be mistaken completely, simply confused from showing up here like this.
"Intimately," Emma replies, but she can't bring herself to be anything but sarcastic about it, no matter how much fun it is to throw Sean off, regardless of his age. With or without her power, there's no way this is someone else, although at least he's changed his hair, thank god. "It was one of your sonic blasts that knocked me here, Cassidy, although I suppose that's a good - what, twenty years from now? Now can we get on with the guided tour and get me home? I've been in your mind before and I don't much like it."
Emma knows perfectly well this is probably the worst possible way to get him to listen - but then, is there a good way? She's yet to find one - but worse than disliking it inside his mind or memories or whatever is the sense that this is none of that. Try as she might, there's nothing there and it's starting to bother her more than she's willing to let on.
Alistair was only really comfortable in the rec room when he was in the Compound, if only because most things weren't so beyond his realm of comprehension there. He was used to people hanging about there, but truthfully, seeing someone laying on the couch was new. It didn't seem very comfortable.
"There are beds in one of the levels of this place for all to use," he offered, upon noticing she was awake. "Not that I'm saying you're in the way, of course."
He just knew what it was like to be new. Maybe no one had told her yet.
The last thing Emma wants is to borrow a bed in a common area designated for all to use.
Scratch that. The last thing Emma wants is to glance over at the tall lug talking to her and realize there is, in fact, someone talking to her, someone whose presence she couldn't feel. Even with her guard raised to keep the voices out, she should have felt something. Instead, as she sits up, tensing, taking in her surroundings in earnest this time, she reaches out and finds nothing.
"Of course I'm not in the way," she says, strained. "And since I can't imagine you're the one who summoned me, perhaps you'll be kind enough to point me towards the one responsible."
It was actually not an unfamiliar expression shot at him. He nearly found himself tempted to ask if she was perhaps one of Morrigan's long lost sisters, but he had a feeling now was not the time to make her angry. Well, angrier.
"Who are respon - oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Wow, I never had to do this before," he said, mostly to himself, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. "See, there's a small problem with that question in that I have no idea how to answer that question. Let me guess. You were somewhere else, and now you're here, right? Because that's how it happened with me."
The response does nothing to soften Emma. If anything, it's all the more irritating - of course she's stuck with some know-nothing bumpkin. "Ooh, very clever," she says, not caring any longer if she offends him or not. He clearly doesn't know anything she needs to know. "That's what happened, yes. Is there someone else here who actually, oh, I don't know, knows something?"
She can feel people milling past, but it's different - a peripheral awareness, faint, like ripples in water. It all seems too far away. Shrugging out of her jacket, she drapes it over her arm, exasperated. It's already ripped and part of her wants to finish the job just for something to tear.
Clearly my throat, I stare over the rims of my glasses at the woman sprawled on the sofa. "Do you mind?"
People fall asleep in all sorts of weird places all the time. Or at least that's what I've noticed during my time here. It results in sunburn and unfortunate fabric burns and things like that.
"I do mind, actually," Emma says, sitting up quickly as she looks at the girl. It's not to give the child the satisfaction of acquiescing; she simply doesn't intend to deal with whatever this while stretched out on some ghastly couch that may or may not be older than she is. She minds a great deal. She minds not having noticed the girl as she approached, she minds the realization that there are others, she minds the distance at which she feels their presence. Everything seems suddenly, painfully dull. "Would you mind telling me exactly what's going on here?"
She wants to reach out and take the information for herself, just to be able to do it, but there's nothing there - not even the absence of information, just the absence of the ability even to reach for it, jarring.
Oh lovely. I mean I don't exactly resent new people because I was once new here and stuck in nothing but paisley dresses for weeks on end.
This one seems to be suitably surly about it though. Which makes sense, especially given that I wasn't exactly all sunshine and roses myself when I arrived.
"Today's your lucky day, because you're now stuck in a place with no magic, no powers, no seasonal changes and a questionable sense of history. Welcome."
Oh, fantastic, the child has a sense of humor. Emma hates that in a tour guide.
The part about no powers hits hard, even if she's already felt the truth of it. This, however, is no time to dwell on the problem. Of course, that's easier said than done.
"Yes, wonderful," she deadpans, "terribly welcome. I'm sure I'll be ready to sing 'Kumbaya' any moment now. I don't suppose you know how I got here?"
Of all the people Terry expects to show next, Emma Frost is the last. Much as she'd like to think this woman only looks like Emma, Terry's pretty damned sure nobody else would dress the way Emma does. She hopes nobody would, at least.
She comes to a stop in front of the sofa, arms crossed. "Ms. Frost."
Well, this is an unexpected development on several levels. It isn't simply that Terry Cassidy suddenly seems to be several years older or that Emma can't feel her there; it's that there's no one there, not in the way she's accustomed to, nothing to block out, nothing if she reaches for it.
"Ms. Cassidy," Emma says, sitting up, ignoring the way her stomach lurches at that realization. No voices, no thoughts - she hadn't realized anyone else was around at all. She bites back the urge to inform Terry that her uncle's a lunatic. "I didn't think I was unconscious that long."
"I can't say much for what ye were doing before ye showed up here," she says, shrugging apologetically. There isn't much she likes about Emma, but that doesn't mean Terry doesn't understand exactly how she's going to feel in a few moments when she realizes she can't read anyone's mind anymore.
"Coercing your father into killing me on your uncle's behalf," Emma replies dryly. "He's a lunatic, by the way. I'm not sure if you missed that." There's only so long Emma can restrain herself at the best of times. This decidedly does not count as that. She looks around, not bothering to hide her disgust as she stands. "Where is here?"
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Fixing him with a glare, she's fast running out of patience with the situation. "I'd much prefer you tell me where I am."
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Not that he was about to act like he was.
"A land far from where you were moments ago," he replied bluntly, seeing no reason to avoid the truth. "An island, called Tabula Rasa. I know no more of how we came to be here than you must."
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"That's all well and good," she says wryly, "but if I wanted an island vacation, I would have booked one myself. Let me guess - you've no idea how to leave either." She can't see why else anyone would be in this room right now.
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"Ye doin' alright o'er there, lass?"
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She doesn't believe that, of course. She's too good at what she does and getting thrown against the tree might have hurt, but it certainly didn't kill her. Still, she can think of no way to account for once again being trapped somewhere in Sean's memory of the unsurprisingly dingy past and unable to read his thoughts. Except that he can see her and that's never happened before.
Sitting up, she narrows her eyes at him. "Where are we?"
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"It's an island," he says, but he changes conversational directions almost before the last word is even out, putting up a hand. "Wait up, jus' how d'ye think ye know me?" He's been recognized many a time here before, of course, but first he needs to know if she's another one who'll actually know him one day or just someone he happens to look like. Maybe if he's really lucky, she'll be mistaken completely, simply confused from showing up here like this.
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Emma knows perfectly well this is probably the worst possible way to get him to listen - but then, is there a good way? She's yet to find one - but worse than disliking it inside his mind or memories or whatever is the sense that this is none of that. Try as she might, there's nothing there and it's starting to bother her more than she's willing to let on.
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"There are beds in one of the levels of this place for all to use," he offered, upon noticing she was awake. "Not that I'm saying you're in the way, of course."
He just knew what it was like to be new. Maybe no one had told her yet.
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Scratch that. The last thing Emma wants is to glance over at the tall lug talking to her and realize there is, in fact, someone talking to her, someone whose presence she couldn't feel. Even with her guard raised to keep the voices out, she should have felt something. Instead, as she sits up, tensing, taking in her surroundings in earnest this time, she reaches out and finds nothing.
"Of course I'm not in the way," she says, strained. "And since I can't imagine you're the one who summoned me, perhaps you'll be kind enough to point me towards the one responsible."
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"Who are respon - oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Wow, I never had to do this before," he said, mostly to himself, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. "See, there's a small problem with that question in that I have no idea how to answer that question. Let me guess. You were somewhere else, and now you're here, right? Because that's how it happened with me."
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She can feel people milling past, but it's different - a peripheral awareness, faint, like ripples in water. It all seems too far away. Shrugging out of her jacket, she drapes it over her arm, exasperated. It's already ripped and part of her wants to finish the job just for something to tear.
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People fall asleep in all sorts of weird places all the time. Or at least that's what I've noticed during my time here. It results in sunburn and unfortunate fabric burns and things like that.
"Cause you're kind of being a cushion hog."
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She wants to reach out and take the information for herself, just to be able to do it, but there's nothing there - not even the absence of information, just the absence of the ability even to reach for it, jarring.
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This one seems to be suitably surly about it though. Which makes sense, especially given that I wasn't exactly all sunshine and roses myself when I arrived.
"Today's your lucky day, because you're now stuck in a place with no magic, no powers, no seasonal changes and a questionable sense of history. Welcome."
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The part about no powers hits hard, even if she's already felt the truth of it. This, however, is no time to dwell on the problem. Of course, that's easier said than done.
"Yes, wonderful," she deadpans, "terribly welcome. I'm sure I'll be ready to sing 'Kumbaya' any moment now. I don't suppose you know how I got here?"
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She comes to a stop in front of the sofa, arms crossed. "Ms. Frost."
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"Ms. Cassidy," Emma says, sitting up, ignoring the way her stomach lurches at that realization. No voices, no thoughts - she hadn't realized anyone else was around at all. She bites back the urge to inform Terry that her uncle's a lunatic. "I didn't think I was unconscious that long."
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"What were ye doing?"
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